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THE LONE ADVENTURE 






THE 

LONE ADVENTURE 


BY 

HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE 

U 



\ 



HODDER & STOUGHTON 
NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


Copyright, 1911, 

By George H. Doran Company 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR I 

II. the night-rider 24 

III. THE HURRIED DAYS 45 

IV. THE LOYAL MEET 66 

V. THE HORSE-THIEF 74 

VI. THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH ...... 91 

VII. THE HEIR RETURNS IO4 

VIII. THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 122 

IX,. THE STAY-AT-HOMES I50 

X. HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY .... 182 

XI. THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH .... 202 

XII. THE GALLOP 27,2 

XIII. THE RIDING IN 256 

XIV. THE GLAD DEFENCE 263 

XV. THE BRUNT OF IT 28 1 

XVI. THE NEED OF SLEEP 302 

XVII. THE PLEASANT FURY 319 

XVIII. THE RIDING OUT 330 

XIX. THE FORLORN HOPE 343 

XX. THE GLORY OF IT 3^3 

XXI. LOVE IN EXILE 3^3 



THE LONE ADVENTURE 


CHAPTER I 

THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 

In a gorge of the moors, not far away as the crow flies from 
Pendle Hill, stood a grim, rambling house known to the heath- 
men as Windyhough. It had been fortified once; but after- 
wards, in times of ease, successive owners had thought more of 
dice and hunting than of warfare, and within-doors the house 
was furnished with a comfort that belied its loop-holed walls. 

It stood in the county of Lancaster, famed for its loyalty 
and for the beauty of its women — two qualities that often run 
together — and there had been Royds at Windyhough since 
Norman William first parcelled out the County Palatine among 
the strong men of his following. The Royd pride had been 
deep enough, yet chivalrous and warm-hearted, as of men 
whose history is an open book, not fearing scrutiny but ask- 
ing it. 

The heir of it all — house, and name, and lusty pride — came 
swinging over the moor-crest that gave him a sight of Windy- 
hough, lying far below in the haze of the November after- 
noon. It was not Rupert’s fault that he was the heir, and less 
strong of body than others of his race. It was not his fault 
that Lady Royd, his mother, had despised him from infancy, 
because he broke the tradition of his house that all its sons 
must needs be strong and good to look at. 

The heir stood on the windy summit, his gun under his 
arm, and looked over the rolling, never-ending sweep of hills. 
The sun, big and ruddy, was dipping over Pendle’s rounded 
slope, and all the hollows in between were luminous and still. 
He forgot his loneliness— -forgot that he could not sit a horse 
with ease or pleasure to himself ; forgot that he was shy of 
his equals, shy of the country-folk who met him on the road, 


2 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


that his one respite from the burden of the day was to get up 
into the hills which God had set there for a sanctuary. 

Very still, and straight to his full height, this man of five- 
and-twenty stood watching the pageant of the sun’s down- 
going. It was home and liberty to him, this rough land where 
all was peat and heather, and the running cry of streams 
afraid of loneliness, and overhead the snow-clouds thrusting 
forward from the east across the western splendour of blue, 
and red, and sapphire. 

He shivered suddenly. As of old, his soul was bigger than 
the strength of his lean body, and he looked down at Windy- 
hough with misgiving, for he was spent with hunger and long 
walking over the hills he loved. He thought of his father, 
kind always and tolerant of his heir’s infirmities ; of his mother, 
colder than winter on the hills; of Maurice, his younger 
brother by three years, who could ride well, could show 
prowess in field-sports, and in all things carry himself like 
the true heir of Windyhough. 

A quick, unreasoning hatred of Maurice took him unawares 
— Esau’s hate for the supplanter. He remembered that Mau- 
rice had never known the fears that bodily weakness brings. 
In nursery days he had been the leader, claiming the toys he 
coveted; in boyhood he had been the friend and intimate of 
older men, who laughed at his straightforward fearlessness, 
and told each other, while the heir stood by and listened, that 
Maurice was a pup of the old breed. 

There was comfort blowing down the wind to Rupert, had 
he guessed it. The moor loves her own, as human mothers 
do, and in her winter-time she meant to prove him. He did 
not guess as much, as he looked down on the huddled chim- 
ney-stacks of Windyhough, and saw the grey smoke flying 
wide above the gables. His heart was there, down yonder 
where the old house laughed slyly to know that he was heir 
to it, instead of Maurice. If only he could take his full share 
in field-sports, and meet his fellows with the frank laugh of 
comradeship — if he had been less sensitive to ridicule, to the 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


3 


self-distrust inbred in him by Lady Royd’s disdain — his world 
might have worn a different face to-day. He stooped to pat 
the setter that had shared a day’s poor sport with him, and 
then again his thoughts went roving down the years. 

He did not hear the sound of hoofs behind him, till Roger 
Demaine’s daughter rode close up, reined in, and sat regard- 
ing him with an odd look of pity, and liking, and reproach. 

“ You look out of heart, Rupert. What ails you ? ” she 
asked, startling him out of his day-dream. 

“Life. It is life that ails me,” he muttered, then laughed 
as if ashamed of his quick outburst. “ I’ve been tramping the 
moors since daybreak, Nance,” he went on, in a matter-of-fact 
voice, “ and all for three brace of grouse. You know how 
much powder goes to every bird I kill.” 

“But, Rupert, why are you so bitter?” 

“ Because I’m your fool,” he broke in, with easy irony. 
“ Oh, they think I do not know ! They call me the scholar 
— or the dreamer — or any other name — but we know what they 
mean, Nance.” 

The girl’s face was grave and puzzled. Through all the 
years they had known each other, he and she, he had seldom 
shown her a glimpse of this passionate rebellion against the 
world that hemmed him in. And it was true — pitiably true. 
She had seen men smile good-naturedly when his name was 
spoken — good-naturedly, because all men liked him in some 
affectionate, unquestioning way — had heard them ask each 
other what the Royds had done in times past to deserve such 
ill-luck as this heir, who was fit only for the cloisters where 
scholars walked apart and read old tomes. 

And yet, for some odd reason, she liked him better for the 
outburst. Here on his own moors, with the tiredness in his 
face and the ring of courage in his voice, she saw the man- 
hood in him. 

“ Rupert,” she said, glancing backward, and laughing to hide 
her stress of feeling. “ You’ve lost me a race to-day.” 

“ Very likely,” he said, yielding still to his evil humour. “I 


4 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


was always in the way, Nance. My lady mother told me as 
much, no longer ago than yesterday. This race of yours?” 
he added, tired of himself, tired of the comrade moor, weary 
even of Nance Demaine, who was his first love and who would 
likely, if he died in his bed at ninety, be his last. 

She glanced over her shoulder again, and saw two horsemen 
cantering half a mile away through the crimson sunset-glow. 
“ It was a good wager, Rupert, and you’ve spoilt it. The hunt 
was all amiss to-day — whenever we found a fox, we lost him 
after a mile or two — and Will Underwood and your brother, 
as we rode home ” 

“ My brother, and Will Underwood — yes. They hunt in 
couples always.” 

“ Be patient, Rupert! Your temper is on edge. I’ve never 
known it fail you until to-day.” 

“ Fools are not supposed to show temper,” he put in dryly. 
“ It is only wise men who’re allowed to ride their humours on 
a loose rein. So you had a wager, Nance?” 

“Yes. We had had no real gallop; so, coming home, 
Maurice said that he would give me a fair start — as far 
as Intake Farm — and the first home to father’s house 
should ” 

She halted, ashamed, somehow, of Rupert’s steady glance. 

“ And the wager? ” 

She glanced behind her. The two horsemen were climbing 
Lone Man’s Hill, and the sight of them, just showing over 
the red, sunset top, gave her new courage. “ You’re brave, 
Rupert, and I was full of laughter till you spoiled my ride. 
It was so slight a wager. Maurice has a rough-haired terrier 
I covet. If — Rupert, you look as if I were a sinner absolute 
— if I were first home, Maurice was to give me the dog — and, 
if not ” 

“And if not?” 

She was dismayed by his cold air of question. “ If I lost 
the wager? Your brother was to have my glove. What 
harm was there? He’s a boy, Rupert — besides,” she added, 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


5 


with the unheeding coquetry that was constantly leading her 
astray, “ it is you who make me lose the wager. See them, 
how close they are! And I’d kept my lead so splendidly 
until you checked me.” 

He was not heeding her. His eyes were fixed on the up- 
coming horsemen, and Nance could not understand this new, 
tense mood of his. It was only when Will Underwood and 
young Maurice reined up beside them that she knew there 
was trouble brewing, as surely as snow was coming with the 
rising wind. 

“ We’ve caught you, Nance,” laughed Maurice. “ Will you 
settle the wager now, or later ? ” 

He was big and buoyant, this lad of two-and-twenty. Life 
had used him well, had given him a hale body, and nerves 
like whipcord, and a good temper that needed little discipline 
to train it into shape. 

Will Underwood laughed. “ Best hasten, Maurice, or I’ll 
claim the forfeit for you.” 

Rupert glanced from Will Underwood to Maurice. There 
was no hurry in his glance, only a wish to strike, and a tem- 
perate, quiet question as to which enemy he should choose. 
Then, suddenly, the indignities of years gone by came to a 
head. He recalled the constant yielding to his brother, the 
gibes he had let pass without retaliation, the long tale of re- 
nunciation, weakness. 

“ Maurice,” he said, with a straightening of his shoulders, 
“ I want a word with you. Mr. Underwood, you will ride 
home with Nance? We shall not need you.” 

Will Underwood gave a smothered laugh, but Nance was 
grave. She looked first at Maurice’s boyish, puzzled face, 
then at Rupert. 

“I claim your escort, Mr. Underwood,” she said sharply. 

Some reproof in her tone ruffled Will Underwood and kept 
him silent as they rode over the crest of the moor and down 
the long, rough slopes that led them to the pastures. He was 
assured of his reputation as a hard rider and a man of the 


6 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


World; and it piqued him to be given marching orders by a 
boy of five-and-twenty. 

“ Rupert thought himself his own father just now, Miss 
Demaine,” he said in his deep, pleasant voice. “For the first 
time since I’ve known him, he had something of the grand 
air. What mischief are the two lads getting into up yonder ? ” 

Nance did not know her own mood. She seemed to be free, 
for the moment, of her light-hearted, healthy girlhood, seemed 
to be looking, old and wise, into some muddled picture of the 
days to come. “ No mischief,” she answered, as if some other 
than herself were speaking. “ Rupert is finding his road to 
the grand air, as you call it. It is a steep road, I fancy.” 

Up on the moor Maurice was facing his elder brother. 
“ What fool’s play is this, Rupert ? ” he asked. “ Why don’t 
you hunt instead of prowling up and down the moor with a 
gun till your wits are addled? Your face is like a hatchet.” 

“You made a wager?” said Rupert, with the same desper- 
ate quiet. 

“ Yes, and I’ve won it. Come, old monk, admit there are 
worse gloves to claim in Lancashire.” 

Rupert winced. His thoughts of Nance Demaine were so 
long, so fragrant. Since his boyhood struggled first into the 
riper understanding, he had cloistered her image from the 
world’s rough usage. She had been to him something magical, 
unattainable, and he was paying now for an homage less 
healthy than this world’s needs demand. It was all so tri- 
fling, this happy-go-lucky wager of a dog against a glove ; but 
he saw in it a supplanting more bitter than any that had gone 
before. 

He stood there for a moment, irresolute, bound by old sub- 
servience to Maurice, by remembrance of his weakness and his 
nickname of “ the scholar.” Then the moor whispered in his 
ear, told him to be a fool no longer ; and a strength that was 
almost gaiety came to him. 

“ Get out of the saddle, Maurice,” he said peremptorily. “ I 
want to talk to you on foot.” 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


7 


Maurice obeyed by instinct, as if a ghost had met him in 
the open and startled him. Here was the scholar — the brother 
whom he could not any way despise, because he loved him 
— with a red 1 spot of colour in each cheek, and in his voice 
the ring of true metal. 

“ Well?” asked the younger. 

“ You never would have claimed that glove.” 

The boy’s temper, easy-going as it was, was roused. 
“ Would you have hindered me? ” 

“ Yes. I— I love her. That is all.” 

So young Maurice laughed aloud, and Rupert ran in sud- 
denly and hit him on the mouth, and the fight began. In his 
dreams the heir of Windyhough had revelled in battles, in 
swift assaults, forlorn and desperate hopes ; for he had known 
no waking pleasures of the kind. And always, in his dreams, 
there had been a certain spaciousness and leisure ; he had found 
time, in between giving and receiving blows, to feel himself 
the big man of his hands, to revel in the sheer bravery of the 
thing. 

In practice, here on the open moor, with snow coming up 
across the stormy, steel-grey sky, there was no leisure and no 
illusion. He had no time to feel, no luxury of sentiment. 
He knew only that, in some muddled way, he was fighting 
Nance’s battle; that, by some miracle, he got a sharp blow 
home at times; that twice Maurice knocked him down; that, 
by some native stubbornness, he got up again, with the moor 
dancing in wide circles round him, and hit his man. 

It was swift and soon over, as Rupert thought of this battle 
afterwards. No pipes were playing up and down the hills, to 
hearten him. Even the wind, whose note he loved, blew swift 
from the east about deaf ears. He and his brother were 
alone, in a turmoil of their own making, and his weakening 
arms were beating like a flail about the head of Maurice, the 
supplanter. Then the moors whirled round him, a world big 
with portent and disaster ; and dimly, as from a long way off, 
he heard Maurice’s voice. 


8 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ I’ll have to kill him before he gives in. Who ever thought 
it of the scholar. ” 

The gibe heartened Rupert. He struggled up again, and 
by sheer instinct — skill he had little, and strength seemed to 
have left him 1 long ago — lie got another swift blow home. 
And then darkness settled on him, and he dreamed again of 
battle as he had known it in the fanciful days of boyhood. 
He revelled in this lonely moorland fight, counted again each 
blow and wondered at its strength, knew himself at last a proven 
man. His dreams were kind to him. 

Then he got out from his sickness, little by little, and looked 
about him, and saw a half-moon shining dimly through a 
whirl of snow. The east wind was playing shrewdly round 
his battered face, as if a man were rubbing salt into his 
wounds. He tried to get up, looked about him again, and saw 
Maurice stooping over him. 

A long glance passed between the brothers, Rupert lying on 
the heather, Maurice kneeling in the sleety moonlight. There 
was question in the glance, old affection, some trouble of the 
jealousy that had bidden them fight just now. Then a little 
sob, of which he was ashamed, escaped the younger brother. 

Rupert struggled to a sitting posture. He could do no more 
as yet. “ So I’m not just the scholar? ” he asked feebly. 

Maurice, young as he was, w'as troubled by the vehemence, 
the wistfulness, of the appeal. Odd chords were stirred, un- 
der the rough-and-ready view he had of life. This brother with 
whom he had fought just now — he understood, in a dim way, 
the pity and the isolation of his life, understood the daily suf- 
fering he had undergone. Then, suddenly and as if to seek 
relief from too much feeling, the younger brother laughed. 

“ The next time a man sneers at you for being a scholar, 
Rupert, give him a straight answer.” 

“ Yes? ” The heir of Windyhough was .dazed and muddled 
still, though he had got to his feet again. 

“ Hit him once between the eyes. A liar seldom asks a 
second blow, so father says.” 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


9 


Then a silence fell between them, while the last of the sun- 
set red grew pale about the swarthy line of heath above 
them, and the moon sailed dim and phantom-like through the 
sleety clouds. They had been fond of each other always, but 
now some deeper love, some intimate communion, gathered 
the years up and bound them into lasting friendship. Maurice 
had been jealous of his brother’s heirship, contemptuous of his 
scholarship. And Rupert had been sick at heart, these years 
past, knowing how well the supplanter sat his horse, and car- 
ried a gun, and did all things reckoned worthy. 

And now they met on equal terms. They had fought to- 
gether, man against man ; and their love ripened under the 
bitter east wind and the stinging sleet, as the man’s way is. 

They went down the moor together, Maurice leading his 
horse by the bridle. They were no heroic figures, the three 
of them. The horse was shivering, after long waiting in the 
cold while his master settled private differences ; and the two 
brothers limped and stumbled as they picked their way down 
the white slope of the moor. There was no speed of action 
now ; there was, instead, this slow march home that in its very 
forlornness touched some subtle note of humour. Yet Rupert 
was warm, as if he sat by a peat-fire ; for he felt a man’s soul 
stirring in him. 

“ What did we fight about ? ” asked Maurice suddenly. 
“ The fun was so hot while it lasted — and, gad, Rupert, I’ve 
forgotten what the quarrel was.” 

Again the elder brother grew quick, alert. It seemed he 
was ready to provoke a second fight. “ It was Nance’s 
glove,” he said quietly. “You said you meant to claim it, and 
I said not. I say it still.” 

“ There, there, old lad ! ” laughed Maurice, patting him 
lightly on the shoulder. “ You shall have the glove. She’d 
rather give it to you than to any man in Lancashire. I said 
as much to Will Underwood just now, and he didn’t relish it.” 

“Rather give it me?” echoed the other, with entire sim- 
plicity. “ I can do nothing that a woman asks, Maurice.” 


10 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


A sudden dizziness crossed his eagerness. He could not 
keep the path, until Maurice steadied him. 

“ You can hit devilish hard,” said the younger dryly. 

The three of them went down the moor, counting the fur- 
longs miles. And again the brothers met on equal terms ; for 
each was bruised and hungry, and body-sickness, if it strike 
deep enough, is apt to bring wayfarers to one common level. 

Nance and Will Underwood had reached the lower lands 
by now, and she turned to him at the gate of Demaine House 
with some reluctance. 

“You will let my father thank you for your escort?” she 
asked, stroking her mare’s neck. 

“ I’ll come in,” he answered, with the rollicking assurance 
that endeared him to the hard riders of the county — “ if only 
for an hour more with you.” He leaned across and touched 
her bridle-hand. “ Nance, you’ve treated me all amiss these 
last days. You never give me a word apart, and there’s so 
much ” 

“ I’m tired and cold,” she broke in, wayward and sleety as 
this moorland that had cradled her. “ You may spare me — 
what shall I say ? — the flattery that Mr. Underwood gives every 
woman, when other women are not there to hear.” 

She did not know what ailed her. Until an hour ago she 
had been yielding, little by little, to the suit which Will Under- 
wood had pressed on her — in season and out, as his way was. 
There had been sudden withdrawals, gusts of coquetry, on her 
part; for the woman’s flight at all times is like a snipe’s — zig- 
zag, and only to be reckoned with according to the rule of 
contraries. 

But now, as she went into the house, not asking but simply 
permitting him to follow her, there was a real avoidance of 
him. She could not rid herself of the picture of Rupert, 
standing desolate up yonder on the empty moors — Rupert, 
who was heir to traditions of hard riding and hard fighting; 
Rupert, with the eyes of a dreamer and the behaviour of a 
hermit. She wondered what he and Maurice were doing on 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


11 


the moor. His last words had not suggested need of her — 
had hinted plainly that he had a man’s work to do. 

Her father was in the hall as they came in. A glance at his 
face told her that Roger Demaine was in no mood for trifles, 
and she stood apart, willingly enough, while he gravely offered 
wine to Underwood, and filled his glass for him, and scarcely 
paused to let him set lips to it before he ran into the middle 
of his tale. 

“ There’s muddled news from Scotland. I can’t make head 
or tail of it,” he said, glancing sharply round to see that no 
servants were in earshot. “We expected him to come south 
with the New Year, and I’ve had word just now that he’ll be 
riding through Lancashire before the month is out — that he 
means to keep Christmas in high state in London.” 

“ I’ll not believe it,” said Will Underwood lazily. “ The 
clans up yonder need more than a week or two to rally to the 
muster.” 

“ You were always slow to believe,” snapped the Squire. 
“ Have a care, Will, or they’ll say you’re like nine men out of 
ten — loyal only until the test comes.” 

The other glanced at Nance, then at his host. “ I would not 
permit the insult from a younger man, sir,” he said. 

“ Oh, fiddle-de-dee ! ” broke in old Roger. “ Fine phrases 
don’t win battles, and never did. Insult? None intended, 
Will. But I’m sick with anxiety, and you younger men are 
the devil and all when you’re asked to ride on some one else’s 
errand than your own.” 

Roger Demaine, big of height and girth, his face a fine, fox- 
hunter’s red, stood palpably for the old race of squires. In his 
life there were mistakes enough — mistakes of impulse and of 
an uncurbed temper — but there was no pandering to shame of 
any sort. 

“ When I’m asked, sir, I shall answer,” said Will Under- 
/ wood, moving restlessly from foot to foot. 

“ Well, I hope so. You’ll not plead, eh, that you are pledged 
to hunt six days a week, and cannot come ? that you’ve a snug 


12 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


house and some thought of bringing a wife to it one day, and 
cannot come? that you are training a dog to the gun, and 
cannot come ” 

It was Nance who broke in now. She had forgotten Rupert, 
standing hungry and forlorn up the high moor and looking 
down on his inheritance of Windyhough. Her old liking for 
Will Underwood — a liking that had come near, during these 
last days, to love and hero-worship — bade her defend their 
guest against a tongue that was sharper than her father 
guessed. 

“ I know he will be true. Why should you doubt him, 
father? ” 

“ Oh, there, child! Who said I doubted him? It’s the 
whole younger race of men I distrust. Will here must be 
scapegoat — and, by that token, your glass is empty, Will.” 

With entire disregard of anything that had gone before, 
Squire Demaine filled another measure for his guest, pointed 
to the chair across the hearth, and was about to give the news 
from Scotland, word bv word, when he remembered Nance. 
“ It will be only recruiting-talk, Nance — men to be counted 
on in one place, and men we doubt in t’other. It would only 
weary you.” 

Nance came and stood between them, slim and passionate. 
“ I choose to stay, father. Your talk of men, of arms hidden 
in the hay-mows and the byres, of the marching-out — that is 
your part of the battle. But what afterwards ? ” 

They glanced at her in some perplexity. She was so reso- 
lute, yet so remote, in her eager beauty, from the highways 
that men tramp when civil war is going forward. 

“What afterwards?” grumbled Squire Roger. “Well, the 
right King on the throne again, we hope. What else, my 
girl?” 

“ After you’ve gone, father, and left the house to its women? 
I’m mistress here, since — since mother died.” 

Roger Demaine got to his feet hurriedly and took a pinch 
of snuff. “Oh, have a care, Nance!” he protested noisily. 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 13 

“ There’s no need to remind me that your mother died. I 
should have taken a whole heart to the Rising, instead of 
half o’ one, if she’d been alive.” 

Nance touched his hair lightly, in quick repentance of the 
hurt she had given him. But she would not yield her point. 
“ I shall be left mistress here — mistress of a house made up 
of women and old men — and you? You will be out in the 
open, giving blows instead of nursing, patience by the hearth.” 

“ Perhaps — Nance, perhaps the Rising will not need us, 
after all,” said Will Underwood, with a lame attempt to shirk 
the issue. ) 

“ I trust that it will need you, sir — will need us both,” she 
said, flinging round on him with the speed of her father’s 
temper. “ You thought I complained of the loneliness that is 
coming? No — but, if I’m to take part in your war, I’ll know 
what news you have.” 

Roger Demaine patted her gently on the shoulder, and smiled 
as if he watched a kitten playing antics with a serious face. 
“ The child is right, Will,” he said. “ It will be long and 
lonely for her, come to think of it, and there’s no harm in 
telling her the news.” 

“ Who was the messenger, father ? ” she asked, leaning 
against the mantel and looking down into the blazing log-fire. 

“ Oh, Oliphant of Muirhouse, from the Annan country. 
The best horseman north of the Solway, they say. He was 
only here for as long as his message lasted, and off again for 
Sir Jasper’s at Windyhough.” 

“And his news?” asked Will Underwood, watching the 
fireglow play about Nance’s clear-cut face and maidish figure. 

The Squire drew them close to him, and glanced about him 
again and, for all his would-be secrecy, his voice rang like a 
trumpet-call before he had half told them; of the doings up in 
Scotland. For his loyalty was sane and vastly simple. 

They were silent for a while, until Nance turned slowly and 
stood looking at the two men. “ It is all like a dream come 
true. The hunger and the ache, father — the King in name 


14 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


reigning it here, and that other over-seas — and grooms riding 
while their masters walk ” 

“ We’ll soon be up in saddle again,” broke in old Roger 
brusquely. “ Oliphant of Muirhouse brings us news that will 
end all that. The country disaffected, the old loyalty waiting 
for a breeze to stir it — how can we fail? I tell you there’s 
to be another Restoration, and all the church bells ringing.” 

He halted, glancing at Will Underwood, who was pacing up 
and down the room. 

“ You’ve the look of a trapped wild-cat, Will,” he said 
irascibly. “ I fancied my news would please you — but, dear 
God, you younger men are cold! You can follow your fox 
over hedge and dyke and take all risks. It’s only when the 
big hunt is up that you begin to count the value of your necks.” 

Underwood turned sharply. Some trouble of his own had 
stood between him and the Rising news, but the Squire’s gibe 
had touched him now. “ The big hunt has been up many 
times, sir,” he said impatiently. “ We’ve heard the Stuart 
shouting Tally-ho all down from Solway to the Thames — but 
we’ve never seen the fox. Oliphant is too sanguine always.” 

Old Roger cut him short. “ Oliphant, by grace o’ God, is 
like a bit of Ferrara’s steel. I wish we had more like him. 
In my young days we did not talk, and talk — we got to saddle 
when such as Oliphant of Muirhouse came to rouse us. 
You’re cold, I tell you, Will. Your voice rings sleety.” 

Will Underwood glanced slowly from his host to Nance. 
He saw that she was watching him, and caught fire from her 
silent, half-disdainful question. Hot words — of loyalty and 
daring — ran out unbidden. And Nance, in turn, warmed to 
his mood ; for it was so she had watched him take his fences 
on hunting-days, so that he had half persuaded her to love him 
outright and have done with it. 

But old Roger was still unconvinced. “ We may be called 
out within the month. Have you set your house in order, 
Will?” 

Again the younger man seemed to be looking backward to 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


15 


some trouble that had dwarfed his impulse. “ Why, no, sir,” 
he answered lamely. “ Surely I have had no time ? ” 

“ Just so,” put in the other dryly. “ At my time of life, 
Will, men learn to set things in order before the call comes. 
Best have all in readiness.” 

A troubled silence followed. They stood in the thick of 
peril soon to come, and Squire Roger, haphazard and unthink- 
ing at usual times, had struck a note of faith that was deep, 
far sounding, not to be denied. As if ashamed of his feeling, 
openly expressed, the Squire laughed clumsily. 

“ I was boasting, Nance,” he said, putting a rough hand on 
her shoulder, “ and that’s more dangerous than hunting foxes 
— bagged foxes brought over-seas from Hanover. Bless me! 
you were talking of staying here as mistress, and I’ll not 
allow it. I’ve had a plan in my head since Oliphant first 
brought the news.” 

“ But, father, I must stay here. Where else ? ” 

“ At Windy hough. No, girl, I’ll have no arguments about 
it. You’ll be protected there.” 

Will Underwood laughed, and somehow Nance liked him 
none the better for it. “ Sir Jasper will go with us, and 
Maurice, and every able-bodied man about the place — who 
will be left to play guardian to Nance?” 

“ Rupert, unless I’ve misjudged the lad,” snapped the Squire. 

“ He cannot protect himself, sir.” 

“ No. May be not — just yet. But I’ve faith in that lad, 
somehow. He’ll look after other folk’s cattle better than his 
own. Some few are made in that mould, Will. It’s a good 
mould, and rare.” 

His secret trouble, and his jealousy of any man who threat- 
ened to come close to Nance, swept Will Underwood’s pru- 
dence clean away. He should have known by now this bluff, 
uncompromising tone of the Squire’s. “ She’s safer here, sir,” 
he blundered on. “ We all know Rupert for a scholar — I’d 
rather trust Nance to her own women-servants.” 

“ But I would not,” put in old Roger dryly, “ and I happen 


16 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


to have a say in the matter. If Rupert’s a fool — well, he 
shall have his chance of proving it. Nance, you go to Windy- 
hough. That’s understood ? The house down yonder can 
stand a siege, and this cannot. My fool of a grandfather — 
God rest him, all the same! — dismantled the house here. He 
thought there’d never again be civil war in Lancashire — but 
down at Windyhough they lived in hope.” 

Nance laughed — the brave laugh of a woman cradled in a 
house of gallant faith, of loyalty to old tradition. She un- 
derstood her father’s breezy, offhand talk of civil war, as if 
it were a pleasant matter. He would have chosen other means, 
she knew, if peace had shown the road; but better war, of 
friend against friend, than this corroding apathy that had 
fallen on men’s ideals since the King-in-name ruled England 
by the help of foreign mercenaries. 

Will Underwood caught infection from these two. The one 
was hale, bluff and hard-riding, a man proven; the other was 
a slip of a lassie, slender as a reed and fanciful; yet each 
had the same eager outlook on this matter of the Rising — an 
outlook that admitted no compromise, no asking whether the 
time were ripe for sacrifice and peril. The moment was in- 
stinct with drama to Underwood, and he was ready always to 
step into the forefront of a scene. 

“When are we needed, sir?” he asked, with a grave sim- 
plicity that was equal to their own. 

“ Within the month, if all goes well with the march. 
There’s little time, Will, and much to do.” 

“ Ay, there’s much to do — but we shall light a fire for every 
loyalist to warm his hands at. May the Prince come soon, 
say I.” 

The Squire glanced sharply at him. Will’s tone, his easy, 
gallant bearing, removed some doubts he had had of late touch- 
ing the younger man’s fidelity ; and when, a little later, Nance 
said that she would leave them to their wine, he permitted 
Will to open the door for her, to follow her for a moment into 
the draughty hall. He noticed, with an old man’s dry and 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


17 


charitable humour, that Nance dropped her kerchief as she 
went out, and that Will picked it up. 

“ The hunt is up/* he muttered. “ The finest hunt is up 
that England ever saw — and these two are playing a child’s 
game of drop-kerchief. There’ll be time to make love by and 
by, surely, when peace comes in again.” 

The Squire was restless. To his view of the Prince’s 
march from Scotland, there was England’s happiness at stake. 
He would have to wait three weeks or so, drilling his men, 
rousing his neighbours to the rally, doing fifty things a day to 
keep his patience decently in bounds. He needed the gallop 
south, and the quick dangers of the road; and here, instead, 
were two youngsters who fancied love was all. 

Outside in the hall Nance and Will Underwood were facing 
each other with a certain grave disquiet. The wind was ris- 
ing fast; its song overhead among the chimney-stacks was 
wild and comfortless ; the draught of it crept down 
the stairs, and under the main door, and through 
ill-fitting casements, blowing the candle-flames aslant and shap- 
ing the droppings into what the country-folk called “ candle- 
corpsies.” Somewhere from the kitchen a maidservant was 
singing a doleful ballad, dear to rustic Lancashire, of one Sir 
Harry of Devilsbridge, who rode out to his wedding one day 
and never was seen again save as a ghost that haunted Lang 
Rigg Moss. 

“ There’s a lively tune for Rising men to march to,” said 
Underwood, ill at ease somehow, yet forcing a gay laugh. 
“ If I were superstitious ” 

“We are all superstitious,” broke in the other, restless as 
her father. “ Since babyhood we’ve listened to that note 
i’ the wind. Oh, it sobs, and will not any way be still ! It 
comes homeless from the moors, and cries to us to let it 
in. Martha is right to be singing yonder of souls crying 
over the Moss.” 

Again Will Underwood yielded to place and circumstance. 
He had watched Nance grow up from lanky girlhood into a 


18 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


womanhood that, if it had no extravagance of beauty, arrested 
every man’s attention and made him better for the pause. 
He had hunted with her, in fair weather and in foul, had sat 
at meat with her in this house that kept open, hospitable doors. 
Yet, until to-night, he had not seen her as she was, a child 
of the moors, passionate, wayward, strong for the realities of 
human pity, human need for faith and constancy. 

“ I have your kerchief, Nance,” he said. The gravity, the 
quietness of his tone surprised her. “ I’ll keep it, by your 
leave.” 

She glanced at him, and there was trouble in her eyes. 
This news of the Rising had stirred every half- forgotten 
longing, inbred in her, that a Stuart might reign again, gallant 
and debonair and kingly, over this big-little land of England. 
She wished the old days back, with desperate eagerness — the 
days when men were not blameless, as in a fairy-tale, but when, 
at any rate, they served their King for loyalty instead of pru- 
dence. Yet, now, with Will Underwood here, her hopes of the 
Rising grew shadowy and far-away. She was not thinking of 
England or the Stuart; she was asking herself, with piteous 
appeal for help, whether her own little life was to be marred or 
made by this big, loose-built man whom all women were sup- 
posed to love at sight. She drew her skirts away from such in- 
temperate, unstable love; but she had known Will Underwood 
long, had dreamed of him o’ nights, had shaped him to some 
decent likeness of a hero. 

“ No, you’ll not keep it. You will give it back to me. 
Oh, I insist ! ” she broke off, again with her father’s quick, 
heedless need to be obeyed. 

He put the kerchief into her hand. “ So you’re sending me 
a beggar to the wars,” he said sullenly. 

“If you go to the wars ” — she was looking wistfully at 
him, as if asking for some better answer to her need of 
faith — “ you shall take it with you, Mr. Underwood.” 

“ You doubt me, Nance? ” 

“ Doubt ? I doubt everything these days : you, and the 


Xs 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 19 

Prince’s march from Scotland, and all — why, all I’m too 
tired to hope for. You do not guess how tired I am. To- 
morrow, may be, the wind will be quieter — and Martha will 
not be singing from the kitchens how Sir Harry rode over 
Devilsbridge and came back, without his body, to haunt the 
moors. Good-night, Mr. Underwood. Go talk with father of 
the Rising.” 

Yet still they lingered for a moment. Through all her 
weariness — through the vague distrust that was chilling her 
— she remembered the day-time intimacy, the nights of long, 
girlish dreams, that had gone to the making of her regard 
for Will. It was untrue — it must be untrue — that he was half- 
hearted in this enterprise that was to set England free of the 
intolerable yoke. If Will’s honour went by the board, she 
would begin to doubt her own good faith. 

What was passing in Will Underwood’s mind he himself 
scarcely knew, perhaps. He was full of trouble, indecision; 
but he glanced at Nance, saw the frank question and appeal 
in her face, and his doubts slipped by him. 

“ I shall claim that kerchief, Nance,” he said — “ before the 
month is out, if Oliphant brought a true message south.” 

Nance glanced at him. “ Mr. Oliphant never lies. His 
enemies admit as much. So come for what I’ll give — if you 
come before the month is out.” 

She was gone before he could insist on one last word, and 
Will Underwood turned impatiently to seek his host. A 
half-hour later, after she had heard him get to saddle and 
ride away, Nance came downstairs, and found her father 
pacing up and down the dining-chamber. 

“ What, you ? ” growled old Roger. “ I thought you were 
in bed by this time, child.” 

“ I cannot sleep.” She came to his side, and put a friendly 
arm through his. “Father, am I right? It seems there are 
so many — so many of our men who are cold ” 

“ Why, damme, that’s just what I was thinking,” roared 
the Squire, his good-humour returning when another shared 


20 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


his loneliness. “ It’s the older men who are warm — the older 
men who are going to carry this business through. It was 
not so in my young days. Our fathers licked us into better 
shape, and we’d fewer luxuries, may be. Why, child, we 
dared not play fast and loose with loyalty, as some of these 
young blades are doing.” 

44 They ask for reasons, father. Young Hunter of Hun- 
terscliff rode up to me to-day, as we were waiting for hounds 
to strike the scent. And I spoke of the Rising, because I can 
think of little else these days; and he yawned, in the lacka- 
daisical way he brought from London a year ago, and said 
the Prince was following a wild-goose chase. And he, too, 
asked for reasons — asked why he should give up a hunting 
life for the pleasure of putting his neck into a halter.” 

Roger Demaine stood, square and big, with his back to the 
fire. His fine apparel, the ordered comfort of the room, 
could not disguise his ruggedness. He was an out-of-doors 
man, simple, passionate, clean as the winds and an open life 
could make him. 44 Hunter of Hunters cliff will put his neck 
into a worse halter if he airs such shallow stuff. I’d have had 
him ducked in the nearest horse-pond if he’d said that to me.” 

The two looked quietly at each other, father and daughter, 
each knowing that there was need of some deeper confi- 
dence. 

44 You dropped your kerchief just now, Nance,” said Roger 
dryly, 44 and Will Underwood picked it up. Did he keep 
it?” 

The girl was full of trouble. Her father’s happiness, the 
welfare of the English land which she loved almost to idolatry, 
her trust in Underwood’s honour, were all at stake. But she 
stood proud and self-reliant. 44 Did you train me to drop my 
kerchief for any man to keep? I tell you, sir — as I told Mr. 
Underwood just now — that he may claim it when — when he 
has proved himself.” 

The Squire was in complete good-humour now. This girl 
of his was as a woman should be, suave and bendable as a 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


21 


hazel-twig, yet strong, not to be broken by any onset of the 
wind. He could afford to tease her, now that his mind was 
easy. 

“ Why, surely Will has proved himself,” he said, smiling 
down at her from his big height. “ He can take his fences with 
any man. He can take his liquor, too, when need asks, and 
watch weaker men slide gently under-table. He can hit four 
birds out of five, Nance, and is a proper lady’s man as well. 
Dear heart ! what more does the child ask from a lover ? ” 

“ I ask so little of him — just to ride out, and ride in again 
after the bells are ringing, a Stuart home. To risk a little 
hardship. To come out of his hunting and his pretty parlour 
ways, and face the open. What else does any woman claim 
from any man, when — oh, when the need is urgent? Father, 
it was you who taught me what this Rising means — it is 
Faith, and decency, and happiness for England, fighting 
against a rabble brought over-seas from Germany, because 
they cannot trust the English army. It is — the breath of our 
English gardens that’s at stake, and yet such as this Hunters- 
cliff lad can yawn about it.” 

“ Will Underwood yawns, you mean,” snapped the Squire. 
“ It was Underwood you were thinking of. I share your 
doubts, Nance. He is this and that, and a few men speak- 
ing well of him' — but there’s a flaw in him somewhere. I 
never could set a finger on it, but the flaw is there.” 

She turned on him, with hot inconsequence. “ He is not 
proved as yet. I said no more than that. You never liked 
him, father. You — you are unjust.” 

“ Well, no ; I never liked him. But I’m content to wait. 
If I’ve misjudged him, I’ll admit it frankly. Does it go 
so very deep, child, this liking for Wild Will ? ” he broke off, 
with rough, anxious tenderness. “ I’m clumsy with women 
—I always was — and you’ve no mother to go to in search of 
a good, healthy cry.” 

“ Why should it go deep?” she asked, with a pride that 
would not yield as yet. 


22 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Oh, Fve watched you both. The ways of a man and a 
maid — bless me, they are old as the hills. Of course, he’s 
good to look at, and there’s naught against him, so far as I 
know; but ” 

“ You will let him prove himself. His chance will not be 
long in coming, father.” 

She bade him good-night gravely, yet with a shy, impulsive 
tenderness, and went up to her own room. The moon was 
staring in through the low, broad window-space. A keen 
frost was setting fingers on the glas$ already ; she brushed 
away the delicate tracery and stood watching the silent, empty 
lands without. No sleet was falling now. She could see 
each line of wall that climbed, dead-black by contrast, up the 
white slope of the pastures. Beyond and high above, a steel- 
blue sky marked, ridge by ridge, the rough, uncompromising 
outline of the moor. 

It was a scene desolate beyond belief, and would have chilled 
one foreign to the country; but Nance looked up the wintry 
slopes as if she found a haven there. There was no illusion 
attaching to this riding-out of the war-men from Lancashire. 
She was not swayed by any casual glamour of the pipes, any 
kilted pageantry of warfare. Her father had taught her, pa- 
tiently enough, that the Stuarts, though they chanced to capture 
the liking of most decent women, were intent on graver business. 
Not once, in the years that had gone before this call to arms, 
had he trained her to an ideal lower than his own. The Stu- 
art, to his belief, stood for charity, for sacrifice, for unbend- 
ing loyalty to the Faith once delivered. And such outlook, 
as he had told her plainly, made neither for pageantry nor 
sloth. 

Nance, watching the sleety wilderness outside, hearing the 
yelp of the wind as it sprang from the bitter, eastern bank 
of cloud, recalled her father’s teaching with a new, ' sudden 
understanding. This sleety land, with its black field-walls 
climbing to the windy moor above, was eloquent in its appeal 
to her. There was storm and disaster now — but there was 


THE FIGHT ON THE MOOR 


23 


heather-time to come, and bees among the ling, and the clear, 
high sunshine over all. Old Squire Demaine, with all his 
rough-and-ready faults, had taught her faith. 

She forgot her trouble touching Will Underwood. The 
rough, moonlit moor reminded her, in some odd way, of Ru- 
pert — of the scholar who a little while ago, up yonder, had 
taken some fancied quarrel of her own upon his slim shoul- 
ders. Somewhere, hidden by the easy pity of the years, was 
a faith in this scholar who caused misgiving to his friends. 
She remembered that her father — the last man in Lancashire 
to be tolerant of a fool — would listen to no gibes at Rupert’s 
expense, that he had bidden her, soon as the hunt was up in 
earnest, seek refuge at Windyhough. 

These white, rough uplands did not bring Will Underwood 
back to mind at all. They brought only the picture of a lean, 
wind-driven dreamer, who had tramped the moors all day for 
the pleasure of sharing his own thoughts with the wilder- 
ness. She recalled the look in his faee when she had sur- 
prised him — the tired question in it, as if he were asking why 
circumstances had piled up so many odds against him ; then the 
welcome, idolatrous almost in its completeness, that his eyes 
had given her when he realised that she was near, and after 
that the curt request that Will Underwood should ride with 
her, while he settled some difference with his brother. 

A woman likes to be worshipped, likes a man to show fight 
on her behalf ; and Nance, watching the stark, moonlit fields, 
for the first time felt a touch of something more than pity for 
the heir of Windyhough. 


CHAPTER II 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 

Down at Windyhough, where the old house thrust its gables 
up into the shelter of its firs and leafless sycamores, Sir Jasper 
Royd sat listening to the messenger who had ridden from Squire 
Roger’s. Lady Royd, who kept her beauty still at five-and- 
forty, and with it some air of girlish petulance and wilfulness, 
sat on the other side of the hearth. Oliphant of Muirhouse 
stood between them, after supping hastily, with the air of a 
man who cannot sit unless the saddle carries him. 

"‘We owe you a great debt for bringing in the news,” Sir 
Jasper was saying. 

“ I am not so sure of that, sir,” put in Lady Royd, with 
sharpness and a hint of coquetry. “ You are robbing me of a 
husband.” 

“ Nay, surely,” said Oliphant, with a touch of his quick hu- 
mour. “ The Prince will restore him to you by and by. 
We’re all for Restoration these days, Lady Royd.” 

“Oh, I know! And you’ve passed your wine over the 
water before you set lips to it. I know your jargon, Mr. Oli- 
phant — but it is lives of men you are playing with.” A 
stronger note sounded in her spoiled, lazy voice; she glanced 
at her husband, asking him to understand her passion. 

“ Not playing with,” said the messenger, breaking an un- 
easy pause. “ Lives of men were given them to use.” 

“ Yes, by gad ! ” broke in Sir Jasper unexpectedly. “ I’m 
sixty, Mr. Oliphant, and the Prince needs me, and I feel a 
lad again. I’ve been fox-hunting here, and shooting, and 
what not, just to keep the rust out of my old bones in case 
I was needed by and by — but I was spoiling all the while 
for this news you bring.” 


24 , 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


25 


“ What are the chances, Mr. Oliphant ? ” asked Lady Royd, 
with odd, impulsive eagerness. “ For my part, I see a county 
of easy-going gentlemen and bacon-eating clowns, who 
wouldn’t miss one dinner for the Cause. The Cause? A few 
lean Highlanders; a lad who happens to carry the name of 
Stuart; the bagpipes waking our hills in protest with their 
screeching — righteous protest, surely — I see no hope in this 
affair.” 

Oliphant was striding up and down the room. He halted, 
faced this petted woman of the world ; and she wondered how 
it came that a man so muddied and so lined with weariness 
could smile as if he came down to breakfast after a night of 
pleasant sleep. 

“ The chances? All in our favour, Lady Royd. We’re 
few, and hold the Faith. We never count the chances; we 
just march on from day to day.” His smile grew broader. 
“ And, by your leave, you’ll not speak ill of the pipes. They’re 
food and drink to us, when other rations fall a little short. 
The pipes? You’ve never heard them, surely.” 

“ Yes, to my cost,” put in the other shrewishly. “ They’re 
like — like an east wind singing out of tune, I think.” 

So then Oliphant grew hot on the sudden, as Highlanders 
will when they defend a thing that is marrow of their bones. 
“The pipes? You’ll hear them rightly, I hope, before you 
die. The soft, clear tongue of them! They’ll drone to ye, 
soft as summer, Lady Royd, and bring the slopes o’ Lomond 
to your sight — and you’ll hear the bees all busy in the thyme ; 
and then they’ll snarl at you, and stretch your body tight as 
whipcord — and then you taste the fight that’s brewing up ” 

“ True,” said Lady Royd ; “ but you ask me for my husband, 
and I’m loth to part with him. Not all the pipes in Scotland 
may comfort me after — after this fight that you say is brew- 
ing up.” 

Sir Jasper glanced at her. He had followed her whimsies 
with great chivalry and patience for six-and-twenty years, 
because it happened that he loved her, once for all ; but he had 


26 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


not heard, till now, this answering care for his safety, this 
foolish and tempestuous wish to keep him by her side. 

Oliphant of Muirhouse understood their mood. He had 
ridden through the lonely places, counting life cheap; and 
such men grow quick of intuition. “ Your husband?” he 
echoed. “ I only claim his promises. He’ll return to you, 
after paying pleasant debts.” 

“ Ah ! but will he return ? ” 

The messenger was surprised again into open confession of 
his faith. “ One way or another you will meet — yes. The 
good God sees to that,” he answered gravely. “ And now, 
Sir Jasper, we’ve talked enough, and my bed lies ten miles 
farther on. Your roads are quagmires — the only bad things 
I’ve found yet in Lancashire.” 

“ But, Oliphant, you’ll stay the night here ? I’ll call you at 
daybreak if needs must.” 

“ I’ll sleep — a little later, friend — and at your house another 
day.” 

His smile was easy as he bade farewell to Lady Royd and 
gripped his host’s hand for a moment; but Sir Jasper saw 
him stumble a little as he made towards the door. 

“ How far have you ridden to-day ? ” he asked sharply. 

“ Oh, fifty miles, no more — with a change of horses. Why 
d’ye ask ? ” said Oliphant, turning in some surprise. 

“ Because you look underfed and over-ridden, man. Stay 
here the night, I say. The Prince himself would not ask 
more of you if he could see you now.” 

“ The Prince least of all, perhaps. It is his way to shift 
burdens on to his own shoulders — if we would let him.” 

Lady Royd found a moment’s respite from her spoiled and 
stunted outlook, from the sense of foreboding and of coming 
loss — loss of the husband whom, in some queer way, she 
loved. She looked at Oliphant of Muirhouse, standing in the 
doorway and looking backward at them; and she wondered 
by what gift he could be sleepless and saddle-sore, serene 
and temperately gay, all at the one time. 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


27 


“ Mr. Oliphant,” she said, “ this lad with the Stuart name 
gets more than his deserts. He has few men like yourself 
among his following, surely ? ” 

“ He has many better men.” Oliphant, weary of every- 
thing except the need to get his ten-mile errand done and 
snatch the sleep he needed, bowed prettily enough to his 
hostess. “ The Prince, God bless him, sets the keynote for 
us all. He makes weaklings into — something better, Lady 
Royd.” 

Royd’s wife, she knew not why, thought suddenly of Ru- 
pert, her elder-born, and she yielded to the temper that had 
not been curbed throughout her married life. “ Then would 
God my son could come under the Prince’s discipline! He’s 
the heir to Windyhough — laugh with me, Mr. Oliphant, while 
I tell you what a weakling he is. He can ride, after a fashion 
— but not to hounds ; he can only read old books in the library, 
or take his gun up to these evil moors my husband loves.” 

Sir Jasper’s temper was slow to catch fire, but it was burn- 
ing now with a fierce, dismaying heat. He would have spoken 
— words that would never be forgotten afterwards between 
his wife and him — if Oliphant had not surprised them both by 
the quietness of his interruption. 

“ He has had no chance to prove himself, I take it ? ” he 
broke in, with a certain tender gravity. “ I was in that plight 
once — and the chance came — and it seemed easy to accept it. 
Good-night to you, Lady Royd, and trust your son a little 
more.” 

Sir Jasper was glad to follow his guest out of doors into 
the courtyard, where a grey-blue moon was looking down on 
the late-fallen sleet. Oliphant’s horse, tied to the bridle-ring 
at the door, was shivering in the wind, and his master patted 
him with the instinctive, friendly comradeship he had for all 
dumb things. 

“ Only ten more miles, old lad,” he muttered, hunting for 
sugar in the pockets of his riding-coat, and finding two small 
pieces. 


28 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


As he was untying the bridle a sound of feet came up the 
roadway. The courtyard gate was opened, and three figures, 
unheroic all of them, came trudging in. They crossed the 
yard slowly, and they were strangely silent. 

Sir Jasper and his guest stared at the three in blank sur- 
prise as they drew near. The moonlight showed them Mau- 
rice, carrying a black eye and a battered face with the jaunti- 
ness inborn in him, and Rupert, bending a little under the 
bruises that were patent enough, and a horse that moved de- 
jectedly. 

“ You’ve been hunting with a vengeance, boys,” said Sir 
Jasper, after long scrutiny of the sons who stood shame- 
facedly at attention. “ Who was it marked your face so pret- 
tily, Maurice ? ” 

“ It was Rupert, sir. We had a quarrel — and he half-killed 
me — I couldn’t make him yield.” 

Sir Jasper was aware of an unreasoning happiness, a sense 
that, in the thick of coming dangers, he had found something 
for which he had been searching many years. If he had been 
Squire Demaine, his intimate friend and neighbour, he would 
have clapped Rupert on the back, would have bidden his sons 
drown their quarrel in a bumper. But he was more scholarly, 
less hale of body than Roger Demaine, and he tasted this new 
joy as if he feared to lose its flavour. He had fought Ru- 
pert’s cause so long, had defended him against the mother 
who despised and flouted him. Under all disappointment had 
been the abiding faith that his heir would one day prove him- 
self. And now — here was Rupert, bruised and abashed, and 
Maurice, proud of this troublesome brother who had fought 
and would not yield. 

It was all so workaday, so slight a matter; but Sir Jasper 
warmed to these two lads as if they had returned from cap- 
turing a city for the rightful King. They were bone of his 
bone, and they had fought together,, and Rupert had forgotten 
that he was born a weakling. 

Oliphant of Muirhouse looked on. He remembered both 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


29 


lads well, for he had halted often at Windyhough during these 
last troubled years, had seen the heir grow into reedy and neg- 
lected manhood, the younger brother claiming notice and re- 
gard from every one, by reason of his ready wit, his cheeri- 
ness, his skill at sports of all kinds. From the first Oliphant’s 
sympathy had been with the elder-born, with the scholar at 
whom men laughed; for he could never quite forget his own 
past days. He looked on to-night, glad of this touch of human 
comedy that came to lighten his desolate rides between one post 
of danger and the next. 

“ Come, lads,” said Sir Jasper, with gruff kindliness, “ you 
were fools to seek a quarrel. Brother should love brother ” — 
he laughed suddenly, a boy’s laugh that disdains maxims — “ but 
there’s no harm in a fight, just now and then. What was your 
quarrel, eh? ” 

They glanced at each other ; but it was Rupert who first broke 
the silence, not Maurice as in bygone days. “ We cannot tell 
you, sir,” he said, with a dignity in odd contrast with his 
swollen, red-raw face. “ Indeed, we cannot.” 

Sir Jasper, out here in the sleety wind, was not aware of cold 
or the coming hardships. His heir was showing firmness, and 
he tempted him into some further show of courage. 

“ Nonsense, boy ! You tell me all your secrets.” 

Rupert lifted his battered face. “ Not this one, sir — and if 
Maurice tells it ” 

“ There, there ! Get indoors, lads, and ask the housekeeper 
for a raw beefsteak.” 

Maurice went obediently enough, knowing this tone of his 
father’s. But Rupert halted on the moonlit threshold, turned 
in his odd, determined way, and came to Oliphant’s side. The 
messenger, standing with an arm through the bridle of his 
restive horse, was embarrassed by the look in the boy’s 
eyes — the eager glance of youth when it meets its hero face 
to face. 

“ Who is your guest, father ? ” asked Rupert, as a child asks 
a question, needing to be answered quickly. “ He has often 


so 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


come to Windyhough, but always in haste. You would never 
tell me what his name was.” 

“Mr. Oliphant of Muirhouse. Who else?” Sir Jasper an- 
swered, surprised by this sudden question. And then he 
glanced at Oliphant, ashamed of his indiscretion. “ The boy 
will keep your secret,” he added hurriedly. 

“ Eve no doubt at all of that, sir,” said the messenger. 

So then Rupert said little, because it seemed this meeting 
was too good to hope for in a world that had not used him very 
well. He had heard talk of Oliphant, while his father sat be- 
side the hearth o’ nights and praised his loyalty. From the 
grooms, too, he had heard praise of the horsemanship of this 
night-rider, who was here to-day and gone to-morrow, follow- 
ing the Stuart’s business. And, because he had desire for 
many dreams, he had made of Oliphant a hero of more im- 
maculate fibre than is possible in a world of give-and-take. 

“ Is father jesting? ” asked the boy. “ You are ” — the catch 
in his voice, the battered face he lifted to the moonlight, were 
instinct with that comedy which lies very close to tears — “ you 
are Oliphant of Muirhouse ? Why, sir, I think the Prince him- 
self could — could ask no more from me — if only I were able.” 

His voice broke outright. And the two elders, somewhere 
from the haunted lands of their own boyhood, heard the clear 
music that had been jarred, these many years, by din of the 
world’s making. 

“ I’m Oliphant of Muirhouse,” said the messenger gruffly, 
“ and that’s not much to boast of. Is there any service I can 
render you ? ” 

Rupert, astonished that this man should be so simple and 
accessible, blurted out the one consuming desire he had in life. 

“ I ride so clumsily : teach me to sit a horse, sir, and gallop on 
the Prince’s business — to be like other men.” 

Oliphant reached out and grasped his hand. “ That will be 
simple enough one day,” he said cheerily. “ Sir Jasper, your 
son is staunch. We’ll need him by and by.” 

Yet Oliphant, after he had said good-bye and ridden out into 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


31 


the white and naked country, was feeling as tired and unheroic 
as any man in Lancashire. The wind was pitiless, the roads 
evil, half between thaw and a gaining frost. Sleep was a 
constant menace to him, for he had had little during the past 
week. He was saddle-sore, and every bone of a body not too 
robust at best seemed aching with desire for rest. Moreover, 
this land of hills, and hills beyond, riding desolate to the grey 
sky and the shrouded moon, was comfortless as any step- 
mother. He knew that his faith, his loyalty, were sound ; but 
no inspiration reached him from these tired and stubborn 
friends ; he was in that mood — it comes equally to those who 
have done too ill or too well in life — when he was ready to ex- 
change all chances of the future for an hour of rest. He knew 
that a good horse was under him, that his hands were sure on 
the reins whenever a sudden hill or a slippery turning met him 
by the way; for the rest, he was chilled and lifeless. 

The last two miles of his journey asked too much of his 
strength. He swayed in the saddle, and thought that he must 
yield to this sickness that was creeping over him. Then quietly 
from the gaunt and sleety hills, Rupert’s voice came whisper- 
ing at his ear. He recalled the lad’s bruised face, the passion- 
ate idolatry he had shown when he knew that Oliphant of 
Muirhouse was the guest at Windyhough. 

“ By gad ! the boy would think me a fool if I gave in now,” 
he muttered. “ And the message — it must go forward.” 

He rode with new heart for the house where his errand lay. 
He got indoors, and gave his message. Then he looked round, 
and saw a couch that was drawn up near the hearth, and for 
four-and-twenty hours they could not rouse him from the 
sleep that had carried him back to Rupert’s land o’ dreams. 

Rupert himself, meanwhile, had stood for a while with his 
father in the courtyard. The sleet and the east wind could not 
interrupt the warm friendship that held between them. 

“ What is the news, father? ” he asked, breaking the silence. 

“ Good news enough, lad. The Prince has left Edinburgh 
on his march south — there has been a ball at Holyrood, all in 


32 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


the old way, and they say that only churls were absent. His 
route lies through Lancashire. At long last, Rupert, we’re 
needed, we men of Lancashire.” 

“ We shall not fail,” said Rupert buoyantly. “ How could 
we, sir? The preparation — the loyalty waiting only for its 
chance — I forgot, sir,” he finished, with sudden, weary im- 
potence. “ I’m not one of you. I got all this from books, 
as mother said to me last night. She was wrong, for all that 
— I learned it at your knee.” 

They stood looking at each other, father and son, seeking 
help in this bleak wilderness of sleet. They were comrades ; 
yet now there seemed a deep gulf fixed between them, between 
the strength and pity of the one, the weakness of the other. 

“ I taught you no lies, at any rate,” said Sir Jasper gruffly. 
“ Let’s go indoors and set your face to rights.” 

“ But, father, I shall ride with you ? ” 

“ No, no,” said the other, with brusque tenderness. “ You 
are not — not strong enough — you are untrained to stand the 
hardships of a campaign.” 

Rupert’s face grew white and set, as he understood the full 
meaning of that word “ untrained.” In the peaceful days it 
had been well enough for him to stand apart, possessed by the 
belief that he was weaker than his fellows ; it was a matter of 
his own suffering only ; but now every loyal man in Lancashire 
was needed by the Prince. His father’s hesitancy, the wish to 
save him pain, were very clear to him. He had thought, in 
some haphazard, dreamy way, that zeal and complete readi- 
ness to die, if need be, for the Cause, were enough to make a 
soldier of him. But now he realised that untrained men would 
be a hindrance to the march, that he would be thwarting, not 
aiding, the whole enterprise. 

“ There, you take it hardly, lad! ” said Sir Jasper, ill at ease. 
“ Your place is here. You’ll be needed to guard Windyhough 
and the women while we’re away.” 

“ You mean it in kindness, sir, but — the fight will sweep 
south, you tell me.” 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


ss 


“ It may sweep any way, once the country is astir. You may 
find yourself fighting against long odds, Rupert, before you’ve 
had time to miss us. Come, it is each to his own work these 
days.” 

In the hall, as they went in, Lady Royd was making much 
of Maurice, obviously against his will. His hurts must be 
seen to — howi had he come by them? — he was looking grey 
and ill — Maurice was ashamed of the twenty foolish questions 
she put to him. 

“ Mother, I’m a grown man by now,” he was saying as 
Sir Jasper entered. “ The nursery days are over.” 

“ Yes,” put in his elder brother, with a quick, heedless 
laugh, “ the nursery days are over, mother.” 

She turned to him, surprised by his tone and new air of 
command. And on his face, too, she saw the marks of his 
stubborn fight with Maurice; and something stirred in her — 
some instinct foreign to her easy, pampered life — some touch 
of pride that her elder-born could fight like other men. 

“ So it was you who fought with Maurice ? Miracles do 
not come singly, so they say.” From sheer habit she could not 
keep back the gibe. “We shall have the skies raining heroes 
soon if the heir of Windyhough ” 

“ Be quiet, wife! ” broke in Sir Jasper hotly. “Your sons 
— God help me that I have to say it! — your sons will be 
ashamed of you in years to come.” 

Sir Jasper had been bitter once about his heir’s weakness. 
He had met and conquered that trouble long ago, as straight- 
riding men do, and had found a great love for Rupert, 
a chivalrous and sheltering love that, by its very pity, broad- 
ened the father’s outlook upon all men. Year by year, as he 
saw that pride meant more than motherhood, the rift had 
grown wider between husband and wife, though he had dis- 
guised it from her; and this sudden, imperative fury of his 
had been bred by many yesterdays. 

Lady Royd stepped back, as if he had struck her, and a 
strange quiet fell on all of them. The wind had shifted, for 


34 > 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


the twentieth time to-day, and was crying thinly round the 
chimney-stocks. A grey, acrid smoke was trailing from the 
hearth, and hail was beating at the windows. Somewhere, 
from the stables at the rear, a farm dog was howling dis- 
mally. 

Lady Royd shivered as she drew the lace more closely round 
her neck. She was helpless against this storm that had gath- 
ered out of doors and in. With an understanding too keen 
for her liking, she realised what this Rising was doing to her 
men-folk. The breath of it was abroad, stormy and swift. 
It had made her husband restless, forgetful of the lover’s 
homage that he had given until these last months ; it had made 
Rupert leave his books and dreams, from sheer desire of lusti- 
ness; it had made Sir Jasper, here in the smoky hall, with the 
thin wind blowing through it, say words of which already, if 
his face were aught to go by, he repented. 

It was Rupert that broke up a silence that dismayed more 
practical folk. It had been his way to bear no malice; and 
now, glancing at Lady Royd, he was aware that she needed 
help. He came to her side — diffidently enough, as if he 
feared repulse — and put a hand on her shoulder. 

“ She was right, sir,” he said, as if defending her against 
his father. “ I’d not had pluck to fight until to-day. I — I 
was not what the heir should be.” 

Sir Jasper saw that tears were in his wife’s eyes, saw that 
she was over-wrought and tired. “ Get to bed, my lads,” he 
said, with a friendly laugh — “ and keep the peace, or I’ll lay 
a heavy hand on the pair of you.” 

When they were alone he turned to his wife. The wind’s 
note was louder, the hail beat hard and quick about the win- 
dows, the farm dog was howling ceaselessly. 

“ I was harsh just now,” he said. 

“ No.” Her face was older, yet more comely. “ It was I 
who was harsh. Rupert needed me all these years, and I 
would not heed — and he was generous just now — and I’m 
thinking of the years I’ve wasted.” 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


35 


Her repentance — yet awhile, at any rate — would be short- 
lived ; for winter is never a sudden and lasting convert to the 
warmth of spring. Yet her grief was so patent, her voice so 
broken and so tender, that Sir Jasper, in his simple way, was 
thankful he was leaving Rupert, since leave him, he must, to 
better cheer than he had hoped for. 

“ He’ll find his way one day,” he said. “ Be kind to him, 
wife — it’s ill work for a man, I tell you, to be sitting at home 
while other men are fighting. I’ll not answer for his temper.” 
Then suddenly he smiled. He’s a game pup, after all. To 
see Maurice’s face when they came home together — and to 
know that it was Rupert who had knocked it so pleasantly out 
of shape ” 

“ Is there nothing pleases men but war ? ” the wife broke in 
piteously. “ Nothing but blows, and bruised faces ” 

“ Nothing else in the world, dear heart — when war happens 
to be the day’s business. Peace is well enough, after a man 
has earned it honestly.” 

Lady Royd was tired, beaten about by this cold, northern 
winter that had never tamed her love of ease. “ Then women 
have no place up here,” she said fretfully. “ Bloodshed — how 
we loathe it and all your needless quarrels ! And all the while 
we ask ourselves what does it matter which king is on the 
throne, so long as our husbands are content to stay at home? 
Women surely have no place up here.” 

Sir Jasper, too, was tired in his own way. “ Yes, you’ve a 
place,” he answered sharply — “ the place we fight to give you. 
There’s only one King, wife — I’m pledged to his service, by 
your leave.” 

“ Oh, yes,” she said, with her pleasant drawl. “ I know 
that by heart. Faith, and the high adventure, and the King. 
There’s only one matter you forget — the wife who sits at 
home, and plies her needle, and fancies each stitch is a wound 
her husband takes. You never saw that dark side of your 
Rising? ” 

“Wounds?” said the other gruffly. “We hide them, wife 


36 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


— that is men’s business. The fruits of them we bring home 
— for our wives to spend.” 

“ Ah, you’re bitter,” she pleaded. 

“ Not bitter,” he said. “ I’m a man who knows his world 
— or thinks he does. The men earn — and the women spend ; 
and you never guess how hard come by is that delicate gift, 
honour, we bring you.” 

“ Honour ? ” She was peevish now. “ I know that word, 
too, by heart. It brings grief to women. It takes their men 
afield when they have all they need at home. It brings swords 
from the scabbard ” 

“ It brings peace of soul, after the wounds are healed,” Sir 
Jasper interrupted gravely. 

Will Underwood about this time had reached his own house, 
and had found his bailiff waiting for him. He had added 
another wing to the house in the summer, and workmen had 
been busy ever since in getting things to rights indoors in 
readiness for the ball which Underwood had planned for 
Christmas Eve — a ball that should outmatch in lavishness and 
pomp all previous revels of the kind. 

“ Well, Eli?” growled the master, who was in no good 
mood to-night. “ Your face is sour enough. Have you 
waited up to tell me that the men are discontented again with 
their wages ? ” 

“ Nay, with their King,” said the bailiff, blunt and dispas- 
sionate. “ It’s a pity, for we were getting gradely forrard with 
the work — and you wanted all done by Kristmas, so you said. 
I’d not go up street myself to see any king that stepped. 
Poorish folk and kings are much o’ the same clay, I reckon. 
Sexton at th’ end of all just drops ’em into six feet o’ wintry 
mould.” 

Will Underwood’s father had held the like barren gospel, 
expressed in terms more guarded. Perhaps some family in- 
stinct, at variance with the coat he wore these days, had 
prompted Will, at his father’s death, to keep as bailiff one of 
the few “ levellers ” who were to be found in this loyal corner 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


37 


of the north. If so, he should have stood by his choice; but 
instead he yielded to childish and unreasoning passion. 

“ D’y e think I’m missing my bed at this time o’ night to hear 
your ranting politics? It would be a poor king that couldn’t 
prick your windbag for you, Eli. Stick to your ledgers and 
the workmen ” 

“ It’s them I’m trying to stick to,” broke in Eli, with that 
impassive dead-weight of unbelief which is like a buckler to 
som&men. “ The workmen are all gone daft about some 
slip o’ Belial they call Stuart Charlie. Squire Demaine has 
been among and about them, talking of some moonshine about 
a Rising; and Sir Jasper Royd has been among ’em; and, what 
with one and t’ other, the men are gone daft, I tell you. They 
talk in daylight o’ what they dursen’t whisper to the dark a few 
months since; they’re off to the wars, they reckon, and you 
can whistle, maister, for your carpenters and painters.” 

Underwood fidgeted up and down the room, and Eli 
watched him furtively. The bailiff, apart from his negative 
creed that every man was probably a little worse than his 
neighbour, and princes blacker than the rest, was singularly 
alive to his own interests. He had a comfortable billet here, 
and was aware of many odd, unsuspected channels by which 
he could squeeze money from the workmen busy with the new 
wing of the house ; it did not suit his interests that the master 
should ride out to lose his head in company with Sir Jasper 
and Squire Demaine. 

“ Stick to the chap that’s sitting on a. throne, maister. 
That’s my advice,” he said, gauging the other’s irresolution to 
a nicety. “ Weights are heavy to lift, especially when they’ve 
been there for a long while.” 

Will Underwood found his better self for a moment. He 
remembered the way of Sir Jasper, the look on Nance’s face 
as she bade him ask for her kerchief when he was ready to go 
out on a loyal errand. A distaste of Eli seized him; there 
was no single line of the man’s squat body, no note of his 
voice, that did not jar on him. 


38 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Your tongue’s like a file, Eli,” he snapped. “ You forget 
that I’m a King’s man, too — a Stuart man.” 

“ Nay, not so much o’ one,” broke in the other dryly, taking 
full advantage of an old servant’s tyranny. “ Your father 
was weaned on thirst and brimstone, maister; and he was 
reared, he was, on good, hot Gospeller’s stuff, such as they 
used to preach at Rigstones Chapel; and he never lost the 
habit when he gat up i’ the world. Nay, there’s naught 
Stuart about ye.” 

Will Underwood, standing with a foot in either camp, was 
accused not so much by Eli’s blunt, unlovely harshness as 
by his own judgment of himself. He knew, now that he was 
compelled to ask questions of himself, that all his instincts, 
tap them deeply enough, were against monarchy of any sort — 
against monarchy of soul over body, against the God these 
Catholic gentry worshipped, against restraints of all kinds. 
He saw Rigstones Chapel, standing harsh against the moor — 
the home of a lonely, obscure sect unknown beyond its own 
borders, a sect that had the east wind’s bitterness for creed, 
but no remembrance of the summer’s charity. He remem- 
bered, as a little chap, going to service at his father’s side, re- 
calling the thunder and denunciation from the pulpit, the 
scared dreams that had shared his bed with him when after- 
wards he went to sleep on Sabbath nights. 

Underwood got himself in hand again. Those days were 
far off, surely. Despite Eli’s unbelieving face, confronting 
him, he was striving to forget that he had ever shared those 
moorland walks to Rigstones Chapel. His father had learned 
gradually that it was absurd to credit a score of people, as- 
sembled in a wayside chapel, with the certainty that, out of the 
world’s millions, they alone were saved, and afterwards 
this same father had bought a fine house, because the 
squire who owned it had gambled credit and all else away. 
And the son had found a gift for riding horses, had learned 
from women’s faces that they liked the look of him ; and, from 
small and crude beginnings, he had grown to be Wild Will, the 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


39 

hunter who never shirked his fences, the gay lover who had 
gathered about himself a certain fugitive romance that had 
not been tested yet in full daylight. 

Eli watched his master’s face. The hour was late. The 
wind was shrill and busy here, as it was at Windyhough. 
The world of the open moor, with its tempests and its down- 
rightness, intruded into this snug house of Underwood. Will 
was shut off from his intimates, from the easy, heedless life, 
that had grown to be second nature to him. He was aware of 
a great loneliness, a solitude that his bailiff’s company seemed, 
not to lessen, but to deepen. In some odd way he was stand- 
ing face to face with the realities of this Stuart love that had 
been a pastime to him, a becoming coat to wear when he 
dined or hunted with his friends. There was no pastime now 
about the matter. He thought of Sir Jasper Royd, of Squire 
Demaine, of others he could name who were ready to go out 
into the wilderness because the time for words was over and 
the time for deeds had come. 

“ You’re not just pleased, like, with all this moonshine about 
the lad wi’ yellow hair,” said Eli guardedly. “ Now, there, 
maister! I alius said ye had your grandfather’s stark com- 
mon sense.” 

Will Underwood did not heed him. He began to pace up 
and down the floor with the fury that Squire Demaine, not 
long ago, had likened to that of a wild cat caught in a trap. 
It was so plain to him, in this moment of enlightenment, how 
great a price these friends of his were ready to pay without 
murmur or question of reward. They had schooled them- 
selves to discipline; they were trained soldiers, in fact, ready 
for blows or sacrifice, whichever chanced ; their passing of the 
loyal toast across the water had been a comely, vital ritual, 
following each day’s simple prayer for restoration of the 
Stuart Monarchy. 

And he? Will listened to the gale that hammered at the 
window, saw Eli’s inquisitive, hard face, fancied himself pacing 
again the moorland road that led to Rigstones Chapel and its 


40 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


gospel of negation. His frippery was stripped from him. 
He felt himself a liar among honest men. He could find no 
sneer to aim at the high, romantic daring of these folk who 
were about to follow a Prince they had not seen ; for he knew 
that he was utterly untrained to such sacrifice as was asked 
of him. To give up this house of his, the pleasant meetings 
at the hunt or by the covert-side; to put his neck on the 
block, most likely, for the sake of a most unbusinesslike trans- 
action — it was all so remote from the play-actor’s comedy 
in which he had been a prime figure all these years. He had 
not dreamed that Prince Charles Edward, in sober earnest, 
would ever bring an army into pleasant England to disturb 
its peace. 

Eli watched the irresolution in his face. He, at least, was 
business-like. He had none of the spirit that takes men out 
on the forlorn hope, and he measured each moment of his life 
as a chance for immediate and successful barter. 

“ Maister,” he said quietly, “ you’ve not heard, may 
be, the rumour that’s going up and down the country- 
side?” 

“ Bad news?” snapped Underwood. “You were always 
ready to pass on that sort of rumour.” 

“ Well, I call it good news. They say Marshal Wade has 
men enough under him to kill half Lancashire — and he’s march- 
ing down this way from Newcastle to cut off these pesty 
Scotchmen.” 

Will Underwood turned sharply. “ Is your news sure, 
Eli?” 

“ Sure as judgment. I had it from one of Wade’s own 
riders, who’s been busy hereabouts these last days, trying to 
keep silly country-folk from leaving their homes for sake o’ 
moonshine. He laughed at this pretty-boy Prince, I tell ye, 
saying he was no more than a lad who tries to rob an orchard 
with the big farmer looking on.” 

Underwood questioned him in detail about this messenger 
of Marshal Wade’s, and from the bailiff’s answers, knowing 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


41 


the man’s shrewdness, he grew sure that the odds were ludi- 
crously against the Prince. 

“ I’m pledged to the Stuart Cause. You may go, Eli,” he 
said, with the curtness he mistook for strength. 

“ Ay, you’re pledged, maister. But is it down in black and 
white? As a plain man o’ business, I tell ye no contract need 
be kept unless it’s signed and sealed.” 

“ And honour, you old fool ? ” snapped Underwood, afraid 
of his own conscience. 

“Honour? That’s for gentry-folk to play with. You and 
me, maister, were reared at Rigstones Chapel, where there was 
no slippery talk o’ that kind. It’s each for his own hand, to 
rive his way through to the Mercy Throne. It’s a matter o’ 
business, surely — we just creep and clamber up, knowing 
we’ve to die one day — and we’ve to keep sharp wits about us, 
if we’re to best our neighbour at the job. It would be a poor 
do, I reckon, if ye lost your chance by letting some other body 
squeeze past ye, and get in just as th’ Gates were shutting, 
leaving ye behind.” 

The whole bleak past returned to Will Underwood. He 
saw, as if it stood before him harsh against the rough hillocks 
of the moor, the squat face of Rigstones Chapel. Pie heard 
again the gospel of self-help, crude, arid, and unwashed, that 
had thundered about his boyhood’s ears when his father took 
him to the desolation that was known as Sabbath to the sect 
that worshipped there. It had been all self-help there, in this 
world’s business or the next — all a talk of gain and barter — 
and never, by any chance, a hint of the over-glory that counts 
sacrifice a pleasant matter, leading to the starry heights. 

“ Eli, I washed my hands of all that years ago,” he said. 

“ Ay, and, later on try to wash ’em of burning brimstone, 
maister — it sticks, and it burns, does the hell-fire you used to 
know.” 

There is something in a man deeper than his own schooling 
of himself — a something stubborn, not to be denied, that 
springs from the graves where his forefathers lie. To-night, 


42 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


as he watched Eli’s grim mouth, the clean-shaven upper lip 
standing out above his stubby beard, as he listened to his talk 
of brimstone, he was no longer Underwood, debonair and glib 
of tongue. He was among his own people again — so much 
among them that he seemed now, not only to see Rigstones 
(Chapel, but to be living the old life once morb, in the little 
house, near the watermill that had earned the beginnings of 
his grandfather’s riches. Thought by thought, impulse by 
impulse, he was divided from these folk of later years — the 
men and women who hunted, dined, and danced, with the 
single purpose behind it all — the single hope that one day they 
would be privileged to give up all, on the instant call, for 
loyalty to the King who reigned in fact, if not in name. To- 
night, with Eli’s ledger-like, hard face before him, Under- 
wood yielded to the narrower and more barren teaching that 
had done duty for faith’s discipline at Rigstones Chapel. And 
yet he would not admit as much. 

“ You’re a sly old sinner, Eli,” he said, with a make-believe 
of the large, rollicking air which he affected. 

The bailiff, glancing at his master’s face, knew that he had 
prevailed. “ Ay, just thereby,” he said, his face inscrutable 
and hard. “ But one way or another, I mean to keep free o’ 
brimstone i’ the next world. It’s all a matter o’ business, and 
I tell ye so.” 

Underwood went out into the frosty, moonlit night, and 
paced up and down the house-front. His fore-bears had 
given him one cleanly gift, at least — he needed always, when in 
the thick of trouble, to get away from house- walls, out into 
the open. The night was clear, between one storm and the 
next, and the seven lamps of Charlie’s Wain swung high above 
his head. He had to make his choice, once for all, and knew 
it — the choice between the gospel of self-help and the wider 
creed that sends men out to a simple, catholic sacrifice of 
houseroom and good living. 

He looked at the matter from every side, businesslike as his 
father before him. There were many pledges he had given 


THE NIGHT-RIDER 


43 


that he would join his intimates when the summons came. If 
they returned from setting a Stuart on the throne, the place 
he had won among them, would be valueless. But, on the 
other hand, Eli’s news made it sure that they would not return, 
that, if they kept whole skins at all, they would be driven into 
exile overseas. He knew, too, that there were many lukewarm 
men, prudent doubters, even among the gentry here whose 
every instinct had been trained to the Stuart’s service. The 
few hot-headed folk — the dreamers — were riding out to dis- 
aster certain and foreknown — but there would be practical, 
cool men enough left here in Lancashire to keep him company. 

And there was Nance. He was on ground less sure now. 
It lay deeper than he guessed, deeper than his love of hunting 
and good-living, his passion for Nance Demaine. She was 
at once his good and evil angel, and to-night he had to 
choose his road. All that was best in his regard for her 
pointed to the strict, narrow road of honour. And she had 
promised him her kerchief when he returned from following 
that road. And yet — to lose life and lands, may be — at best, 
to be a fugitive in foreign countries — would that help him 
nearer to the wooing? If he stayed here, she would be dere- 
lict at Windyhough, would need his help. He could ride 
down to the house each day, be at hand to tempt her with the 
little flatteries that mean much when women are left in a 
house empty of all men-folk. And, if danger came up the 
moors after the Rising was crushed at birth by Marshal Wade, 
he would be at hand to protect her. 

To protect her. He knew, down under all subterfuge, that 
such as Nance find the surest protection when their men are 
riding straight, and he was not riding straight to-night; and 
finer impulses were stirring in him than he had felt through 
five-and-thirty years of self-indulgence. 

He glanced at the moors, saw again the squat, practical face 
of Rigstones Chapel, heard Eli Fletcher’s east-wind, calculat- 
ing voice. He was true to his breed to-night, as he sur- 
rendered to the bleak, unlovely past. 


44 > 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Fools must gang their gait/’ he muttered, “ but wise men 
stay at home.” 

Eli Fletcher was crossing the hall as he went in, and 
glanced at the master’s face. “ Shall we get forrard wi’ the 
building? ” he asked, needing no answer. 

“ Ay, Eli. And we’ll dance at Christmas, after this ill- 
guided Rising is ended.” 

“ You’re your father over again,” said Eli, with grim ap- 
proval. 


CHAPTER III 


THE HURRIED DAYS 

Uneasy days had come to Lancashire. The men had grown 
used to security, save for the risk of a broken neck on hunt- 
ing-days, their wives pampered and extravagant; for peace, 
of the unhealthy sort, saps half their vigour from men and 
women both. They had nothing to fear, it seemed. There 
had been wars overseas, and others threatened; but their bat- 
tles had been fought for them, by foreign mercenaries of King 
George’s. For the rest, Lancashire hunted and dined and 
diced, secure in the beauty of her women, the strength of her 
men who rode to hounds and made love in the sleepy intervals. 

And now the trumpet-call had sounded. None spoke abroad 
of the news that Oliphant of Muirhouse and other messengers 
were bringing constantly; but, when doors were closed, there 
was eager talk of what was in the doing. And the elders of 
the company were aware that, for every man who held loyalty 
fast in his two hands, there were five at least who were 
guarded in devotion, five who spoke with their lips, but whose 
hearts were set on safety and the longing to enjoy more hunt- 
ing days. 

It was this lukewarmness that harassed and exasperated 
men like Sir Jasper and Squire Demaine. Better open ene- 
mies, they felt — those who were frankly ranged against the 
Old Faith, the Old Monarchy, the old traditions— than easy- 
going friends who would talk but would not act. Here on 
the windy heights of Lancashire they were learning already 
what the stalwarts farther north were feeling — an intolerable 
sickness, an impatience of those who wished for the return 
of the old order, but had not faith enough to strike a blow for 
it. 


45 


46 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Yet there were others; and day by day, as news of the 
Prince’s march drifted down to Windyhough, Sir Jasper was 
heartened to find that after all, he would bring a decent com- 
pany to join the Rising. Meanwhile, the lives they were liv- 
ing day by day seemed odd to thinking men who, like Sir 
Jasper, understood how imminent was civil war, and what the 
horrors of it were. The farmers rode to market, sold their 
sheep and cattle, returned sober or otherwise according to 
force of habit, just as at usual times. In the village border- 
ing Windyhough the smith worked at his bellows, the cobbler 
was busy as ever with making boots and scandal, the labour- 
ers’ wives — the shiftless sort — scolded their husbands into the 
alehouse, while the more prudent ones made cheery hearths 
for them at home. It seemed incredible that before the year 
was out there would be such a fire kindled in this peaceful 
corner of the world as might burn homesteads down, and 
leave children fatherless, if things went amiss with Prince 
Charles Edward. 

But Sir Jasper let no doubts stay long with him. Things 
would go well. If the risks were great, so was the recom- 
pense. A Stuart safely on the throne again; English gentle- 
men filling high places where foreigners were now in favour ; 
the English tongue heard frequently at Court ; a return of the 
days when Church and King meant more than an idle toast — 
surely the prize was worth the hazard. 

He carried a sore heart on his own account these days. 
He had a wife and sons at Windyhough; he loved the house 
that had grown old in company with his race ; he had no per- 
sonal gain in this adventure of the Prince’s, no need of rec- 
ompense nor wish for it; and sometimes, when he was tired- 
out or when he had found the younger gentry irresolute in 
face of the instant call to arms, he grew weak and foolish, 
as if he needed to learn from the everlasting hills about him 
that he was human after all. And at these times his faith 
shone low and smoky, like a fire that needs a keen breath of 
wind to kindle it afresh. 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


47 


On one of these days, near dusk, as he rode home across the 
moor, dispirited because no news had followed Oliphant’s mes- 
sage of a week ago, a rider overtook him at spurring gal- 
lop, checked suddenly, and turned in saddle. 

“ I was for Windyhough,” he panted. “ You’ve saved me 
three miles, sir — and, gad ! my horse will bless you.” 

“The news, Oliphant? The news? I’m wearying for it.” 

“ Be ready within the week. The Prince is into Anan — Car- 
lisle will fall — get your men and arms together. Pass on the 
word to Squire Demaine.” 

“ And the signal ? ” 

“ Wait till I bring it, or another. Be ready, and — God save 
the King!” 

Here on the hill-tops, while Oliphant of Muirhouse breathed 
his horse for a moment, the two men looked, as honest folk 
do, straight into each other’s eyes. Sir Jasper saw that Oli- 
phant was weary in the cause of well-doing ; that was his trade 
in life, and he pursued it diligently ; but the older man was not 
prepared for the sudden break and tenderness in the rider’s 
voice as he broke off to cry “ God save the King ! ” There 
was no bravado possible up here, where sleety, austere hills 
were the only onlookers; the world’s applause was far off, 
and in any case Oliphant was too saddle-sore and hungry to 
care for such light diet ; yet that cry of his — resolute, gay al- 
most — told Sir Jasper that two men, here on the uplands, were 
sharing the same faith. 

“God save the King!” said Sir Jasper, uncovering; “and 
— Oliphant, you’ll take a pinch of snuff with me. ” 

Oliphant laughed — the tired man’s laugh that had great 
pluck behind it — and dusted his nostrils with the air of one 
who had known courts and gallantry. “ They say it guards 
a man against chills, Sir Jasper — and one needs protection of 
that sort in Lancashire. Your men are warm and Catholic — 
but your weather and your roads — de’il take them ! ” 

“ Our weather bred us, Oliphant. We’ll not complain.” 

Oliphant of Muirhouse glanced at him. “ By gad ! you’re 


48 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


tough, sir,” he said, with that rare smile of his which folk 
likened to sun in mid- winter frost. 

“ By grace o’ God, I’m tough ; but I never learned your 
trick of hunting up tired folk along the roads and putting new 
heart into them. How did you learn the trick, Oliphant ? ” 

It was cold up here, and the messenger had need to get about 
his business; but two men, sharing a faith bigger than the 
hills about them, were occupied with this new intimacy that 
lay between them, an intimacy that was tried enough to let 
them speak of what lay nearest to their hearts. Oliphant 
looked back along the years — saw the weakness of body, the 
tired distrust of himself that had hindered him, the groping 
forward to the light that glimmered faint ahead. 

“ Oh, by misadventure and by sorrow — how else ? I’ll take 
another pinch of snuff, Sir Jasper, and ride forward.” 

“ If they but knew, Oliphant ! ” The older man’s glance 
was no less direct, but it was wistful and shadowed by some 
doubt that had taken him unawares. “ We’ve all to gain, we 
loyalists, and George has left us little enough to lose. And 
yet our men hang back. Cannot they see this Rising as I see 
it? Prosperity and kingship back again — no need to have a 
jug of water ready when you drink the loyal toast — the May- 
pole reared again in this sour, yellow-livered England. Oli- 
phant, we’ve the old, happy view of things, and yet our gentle- 
men hang back.” 

A cloud crossed Oliphant’s persistent optimism, too. In 
experience of men’s littleness, their shams and subterfuges 
when they were asked to put bodily ease aside for sake of bat- 
tle, he was older than Sir Jasper. The night-riders of this 
Rising saw the dark side, not only of the hilly roads they 
crossed, but of human character; and in this corner of Lan- 
cashire alone, Oliphant knew to a nicety the few who would 
rise, sanguine at the call of honour, and the many who would 
add up gain and loss like figures in a tradesman’s ledger. 

“ Sir Jasper,” he said, breaking an uneasy silence, “ the 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


49 


Prince will come to his own with few or many. If it were 
you and I alone, I think we’d still ride out.” 

He leaned from the saddle, gripped the other’s hand, and 
spurred forward into the grey haze that was creeping up the 
moor across the ruddy sundown. 

Sir Jasper followed him, at an easier pace. For a while 
he captured something of Oliphant’s zeal — a zeal that had 
not been won lightly — and then again doubt settled on him, 
cold as the mist that grew thicker and more frosty as he gained 
the lower lands. He knew that the call had come which 
could not be disobeyed, and he was sick with longing for the 
things that had been endeared to him by long-continued peace. 
There was Rupert, needing a father’s guidance, a father’s help 
at every turn, because he was a weakling; he had not known 
till now how utterly he loved the lad. There was his wife, 
who was wayward and discontented these days; but he had 
not forgotten the beauty of his wooing-time. There was all 
to lose, it seemed, in spite of his brave words not long ago. 

Resolute men feel these things no less — nay, more, perhaps — 
than the easy-going. Their very hatred of weakness, of 
swerving from the straight, loyal path, reacts on them,, and 
they find temptation doubly strong. Sir Jasper, as he rode 
down into the nipping frost that hung misty about the chim- 
ney-stacks below him, had never seen this house of his so 
comely, so likeable. Temptation has a knack of rubbing out 
all harsher lines, of showing a stark, mid-winter landscape as 
a land of plenty and of summer. There were the well ordered 
life, the cheery greetings with farmer-folk and hinds, who 
loved their squire. There was his wife — she was young again, 
as on her bridal-day, asking, him if he dared leave her — and 
there was his heir. Maurice, the younger-born, would go out 
with the Rising; but Rupert must be left behind. 

Sir Jasper winced, as if in bodily pain. Every impulse was 
bidding him stay. Every tie, of home and lands and tenantry, 
was pulling him away from strict allegiance to the greater 


50 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Cause. He had but to bide at home, to let the Rising sweep 
by him and leave him safe in his secluded corner of the 
moors; it was urgent that he should stay, to guard his wife 
against the licence that might follow civil war; it was his 
duty to protect his own. 

The strength of many yesterdays returned to help Sir Jas- 
per. Because he was turned sixty, a light thinker might have 
said that he might take his ease; but, because he was turned 
sixty, he had more yesterdays behind him than younger men 
— days of striving toward a goal as fixed as the polar-star, 
nights of doubt and disillusion that had yielded to the dawn 
of each succeeding sunrise. He had pluck and faith in God 
behind him ; and his trust was keen and bright, like the sword- 
blade that old Andrew; Ferrara had forged in Italy for Prince 
Charles Edward. 

“ The Prince needs me,” he muttered stubbornly. “ That 
should be praise enough for any man.” 

He rode down the bridle-track to Windyhough; and the 
nearer he got to the chimneys that were smoking gustily in the 
shrewd east wind, the more he loved his homestead. It was 
as if a man, living in a green oasis, were asked to go out across 
the desert sands, because a barren, thirsty duty called him. 

Again the patient yesterdays rallied to his aid. He shook 
himself free of doubts, as a dog does when he comes out 
of cold waters; and he took a pinch of snuff, and laughed. 
“ After all, I was growing fat and sleepy,” he thought, 
stooping to pat the tired horse that carried him. “ One can 
sleep and eat too much.” 

He found Lady Royd in the hall, waiting for him, and 
a glance at her face chilled all desire to tell her the good 
Rising news. 

“ What is the trouble, wife ? ” he asked, with sudden fore- 
boding. “ Is Rupert ill ? ” 

She stamped her foot, and her face, comely at usual times, 
was not good to see. “ Oh, it is Rupert with you — and 
always Rupert — till I lose patience. He is — why, just the 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


51 


scholar. He does not hunt ; he scarce dares to ride — we’ll 
have to make a priest of him.” 

“ There are worse callings,” broke in Sir Jasper, with the 
squared jaw that she knew by heart, but would not under- 
stand. “If my soul were clean enough for priesthood, I 
should no way be ashamed.” 

“Yes, but the lands? Will you not understand that he 
is the heir — and there must be heirs to follow? We have 
but two, and you’re taking Maurice to this mad rising that 
can only end on Tower Hill.” 

“ That is as God wills, wife o’ mine.” 

Again she stamped her foot. “ You’re in league together, 
you atid he.” 

“ We share the same Faith,” he put in dryly, “ if that is to 
be in league together.” 

“ Only to-day — an hour before you came — I found him 
mooning in the library, when he should have been out of 
doors. 4 Best, join the priests at once, and have done with 
it,’ said I. And 4 No,’ he answered stubbornly, 4 I’ve been 
reading what the Royds did once. They fought for Charles 
the First, and afterwards — they died gladly, some of them. 
I come of a soldier-stock, and I need to fight.’ The scholar 
dreamed of soldiery! I tapped him on the cheek — and he a 
grown man of five-and-twenty — and ” — she halted, some hid- 
den instinct shaming her for the moment — 44 and he only 
answered that he knew the way of it all — by books — dear 
heart, by books he knew hoW strong men go to battle ! ” 

44 Rupert said that?” asked Sir Jasper gently. “Gad! 
I’m proud of him. He’ll come to soldiery one day.” 

44 By mooning in the library — by roaming the moors at all 
hours of the day and night — is that the way men learn 
to fight?” 

Sir Jasper was cool and debonair again. 44 Men learn to 
fight as the good God teaches them, my lady. We have no 
part in that. As for Rupert — I tell you the lad is staunch 
and leal. He was bred a Christian gentleman, after all, and 


52 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


breed tells — it tells in the long run, Agnes, though all the 
fools in Lancashire go making mouths at Rupert.” 

He strode up and down the hall, with the orderly impa- 
tience that she knew. And then he told the Rising news ; 
and she ran towards him, and could not come too close 
into his arms, and made confession, girlish in its simplicity, 
that she, who cared little for her son, loved her husband bet- 
ter than her pride. 

“You’ll not go? It is a mad Rising — here with the 
Georges safe upon the throne. You need not go, at your 
age. Let younger men bear the brunt of it, if they’ve a 
mind for forlorn hopes.” 

He put her arms away from him, though it helped and 
heartened him to know that, in some queer way, she loved 
him. 

“ At any age one serves the Prince, wife. I’m bidden — 
that is all.” 

Lady Royd glanced keenly at her husband. She had been 
spoilt and wilful, counting wealth and ease as her goal in 
life; but she was sobered now. Sir Ja»sper had said so 
little ; but in his voice, in the look of his strong, well-favoured 
face, there was something that overrode the shams of this 
world. He was a simple-minded gentleman, prepared for 
simple duty ; and, because she knew that he was unbreak- 
able, her old wilfulness returned. 

“ For my sake, stay ! ” she pleaded. “ You are — my dear, 
you do not know how much you are to me.” 

He held her at arm’s length, looking into her face. Her 
eyes were pixie-like — radiant, full of sudden lights and fugi- 
tive, light-falling tears. So had he seen her, six-and-twenty 
years before, when he brought her as a bride to Windyhough. 
For the moment he was unnerved. She was so young in her 
blandishment, so swift and eager a temptation. It seemed 
that, by some miracle, they two were lad and lass again, 
needing each other only, and seeing the world as a vague and 
sunlit background to their happiness. 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


53 

“ Ah. you’ll not go ! ” she said softly. “ I knew you would 
not.” 

“ Not go ? ” He stood away from her, crossed to the win- 
dow that gave him a sight of the last sunset-red above the 
heath. “ You are childish, Agnes,” he said sharply. 

“ So are all women, when — when they care. I need you 
here — need you — and you will not understand.” 

Sir Jasper laughed, with a gentleness, a command of him- 
self, that did not date from yesterday. “ And a man, when 
he cares — he cares for his honour first — because it is his 
wife’s. Agnes, you did not hear me, surely. I said that 
the Prince commands me.” 

“ And / command you. Choose between us.” 

Her tone was harsh. She had not known how frankly and 
without stint she loved this man. She was looking ahead, 
seeing the forlornness of the waiting-time while he was ab- 
sent on a desperate venture. 

He came and patted her cheek, as if she were a baby to 
be soothed. “ I choose both,” he said. “ Honour and you — 
dear heart, I cannot disentangle them.” 

She felt dwarfed by the breadth and simplicity of his ap- 
peal. The world thought her devout, a leal daughter of 
the Church ; but she had not caught his gift of seeing each 
day whole, complete, without fear or favour from the mor- 
row. And, because she was a spoilt child, she could not 
check her words. 

“ You’ve not seen the Prince. He’s a name only, while 
I — I am your wife.” 

Sir Jasper was tired with the long day’s hunting, the news 
that had met him by the way; but his voice was quiet and 
resolute. “ He is more than a name, child. He’s my 
Prince — and one day, if I live to see it, his father will be 
crowned in London. And you’ll be there, and I shall tell 
them that it was you, Agnes, who helped me fasten on my 
sword-belt.” 

And still she would not heed. Her temperament was of 


54 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


the kind that afterwards was to render the whole Rising 
barren. She had no patience and little trust. 

“Why should I give you God-speed to Tower Hill ? she 
snapped. “ You think the name of Stuart is one to con- 
jure with. You think all Lancashire will rise, when this 
wizard Prince brings the Stuart Rose to them. Trust me 
— I know how Lancashire will wait, and wait; they are cau- 
tious first and loyal afterwards.” 

“Lancashire will rise,” broke in Sir Jasper; “but, either 
way, I gO' — and all my tenantry.” 

“ And your heir ? He will go, too, will he not ? ” 

She did not know how deep her blow struck. He had 
resisted her, her passionate need of him. He would leave her 
for a Rising that had no hope of success, because the name 
of Stuart was magical to him. In her pain and loneliness 
she struck blindly. 

He went to the door, threw it open, and stood looking at 
the grey, tranquil hills. There was the sharp answer ready 
on his tongue. He checked it. This was no time to yield to 
anger; for the Prince’s men, if they were to win home to 
London, had need of courage and restraint. 

“ My son ” — he turned at last, and his voice was low and 
tired — “ our son, Agnes — he is not trained for warfare. I 
tell you, he’ll eat his heart out, waiting here and knowing 
he cannot strike a blow. His heart is big enough, if only 
the body of him would give it room.” 

She was desperate. All the years of selfishness, with Sir 
Jasper following every whim for love of her, were prompting 
her to keep him at her apron-strings. Her own persuasion 
had failed; she would try another way, though it hurt her 
pride. 

“ He’ll eat his heart out, as you say. Then stay for the 
boy’s sake,” she put in hurriedly. “ He will feel the shame 
of being left behind — he will miss you at every turn — it is 
cruel to leave him fatherless.” 

She had tempted him in earnest now. He stood moodily 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


55 


at the door, watching the hills grow dark beneath a sky of 
velvet grey. He knew the peril of this Rising — knew that 
the odds were heavy against his safe return — and the pity 
of that one word “ fatherless ” came home to him. This 
weakling of his race had not touched compassion in the 
mother, as the way of weaklings is; but he had moved his 
father to extreme and delicate regard for him, had threaded 
the man’s hardihood and courage with some divine and silver 
streak. 

He turned at last. There was something harsh, repellent 
in his anger, for already he was fighting against dreary 
odds. 

“Get to your bed, wife! Fatherless? He’d be worse 
than that if I sat by the fireside after the Prince had bidden 
me take the open. He’d live to hear men say I was a coward 
— he’d live to wish the hills would tumble down and hide 
him, for shame of his own father. God forgive you, Agnes, 
but you’re possessed of a devil to-night — just to-night, when 
the wives of other men are fastening sword-belts on.” 

It was the stormy prelude to a fast and hurrying week. 
Messengers rode in, by night and day, with news from 
Scotland. They rode with hazard; but so did the gentlemen 
of Lancashire, whenever they went to fair or market, and 
listened to the rider’s message, and glanced about to see if 
George’s spies were lingering close to them. 

Men took hazards, these days, as unconcernedly as they 
swallowed breakfast before getting into saddle. Peril was 
part of the day’s routine, and custom endeared it to them, 
till love of wife and home grew like a garden-herb, that 
smells the sweetest when you crush it down. 

Lady Royd watched her husband’s face, and saw him grow 
more full of cheeriness as the week went on. Oliphant’s 
news had been true enough, it seemed, for Scotland had 
proved more than loyal, and had risen at the Stuart’s call 
as a lass comes to her lover. The Highlanders had sunk 
their quarrels with the Lowlanders, and the ragged begin- 


56 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


ning of an army was already nearing Carlisle. Then there 
came a morning when Sir Jasper rode into the nearest town 
on market-day, and moved innocent and farmer-like among 
the thick-thewed men who sold their pigs and cattle, and 
halted now and then to snatch news of the Rising from some 
passer-by who did not seem, in garb or bearing, to be con- 
cerned with Royal business; and he returned to Windy- 
hough with the air of one who has already come into his 
kingdom. 

“ They are at Carlisle, wife,” he said. “ They’ve taken 
the Castle there ” 

“ It’s no news to Carlisle Castle, that,” she broke in — 
shrewishly, because she loved him and feared to let him go. 
“ It stands there to be taken, if you’ve taught me my his- 
tory — first by the Scots, and the next day by the English. 
Carlisle is a wanton, by your leave, that welcomes any man’s 
attack.” 

He had come home to meet east wind and littleness — the 
spoilt woman’s littleness, that measures faith by present and 
immediate gains. He was chilled for the moment; but the 
loyalty that had kept him hale and merry through sixty 
years was anchored safe. 

“ The Prince comes south, God bless him ! ” he said 
gravely. “ We shall go out at dawn one of these near days, 
Agnes. We shall not wait for his coming — we shall ride 
out to meet him, and give him welcome into loyal Lan- 
cashire.” 

She was not shrewish now. Within the narrow walls she 
had built about her life she loved him, as a garden-flower 
loves the sun, not asking more than ease and shelter. And 
her sun was telling her that he must be absent for awhile, 
leaving her in the cold, grey twilight that women know 
when their men ride out to battle. 

“ You shall not go,” she said, between her tears. “ Dear, 
the need I have of you — the need ” 

He stooped suddenly and kissed her on the cheek. “ I 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


57 

should love you less, my dear, if I put slippers on at home 
and feared to take the open.” 

And still she would not answer him, or look him in the 
eyes with the strength that husbands covet when they are 
bent on sacrifice and need a staff to help them on the road. 

“ You’re not the lover that you were — say, more years ago 
than I remember,” she said with a last, soft appeal. 

He laughed, and touched her hand as a wooer might. “ I 
love you twice as well, little wife. You’ve taught me how 
to die, if need be.” 

She came through the door of the garden that had shel- 
tered her. For the first time in her life she met the open 
winds; and Sir Jasper’s trust in her was not misplaced. 

“ Is that the love you’ve hidden all these years ? ” she 
asked. 

“ Yes, my dear. It’s the love you had always at command, 
if you had known it. Men are shy of talking of such mat- 
ters.” 

She ran to get his sword, docile as a child, and laid it on 
the table. “ I shall buckle it on for you, never fear,” she 
said, with the light in her eyes at last — the light he had 
sought and hungered for. 

“ Sweetheart, you — you care, then, after all ? ” He kissed 
her on the lips this time. “ We shall go far together, you 
and I, in the Prince’s cau£e. Women sit at home, and pray — 
and their men fight the better for it. My dear, believe me, 
they fight the better for it.” 

They faced each other, searching, as wind-driven folk do, 
for the larger air that cleanses human troubles. And sud- 
denly she understood how secure was the bond that intimacy 
had tied about them. She had not guessed it till she came 
from her sheltered garden and faced the breezy hills of Lan- 
cashire at last. 

And her husband, seeing her resolute, allowed himself a 
moment’s sickness, such as he had felt not long ago after 
saying goodbye to Oliphant high up the moor. He might 


58 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


not return. The odds were all against it. He was bidding 
a last farewell, perhaps, to the ordered life here, the lover’s 
zeal which his wife commanded from him still — to the son 
whom he had watched from babyhood, waiting always, with a 
father’s dogged hope, for signs of latent strength. In some 
queer way he thought most of his boy just now; the lad was 
lonely, and needed him. 

Then he crushed the sickness down. The night’s road was 
dark and troublesome; but, whether he returned or no, there 
must needs be a golden end to it. 

“ What does it matter, wife ? ” he said, his voice quiver- 
ing a little. “ A little loneliness — in any case it would not 
be for long, sweetheart — and then — why, just that the Prince 
had called me, and we had answered, you and I ” 

She swept round on him in a storm of misery and doubt. 
“ Oh, Faith’s good enough in time of Peace. Women cher- 
ish it when days go easily, and chide their men for slack- 
ness. And the call comes — and then, God help us! we cling 
about your knees while you are resolute. It is the men who 
have true faith — the faith that matters and that helps them.” 

He took her face into his two hands. She remembered 
that he had worn just this look, far off in the days of laven- 
der and rosemary, when he had brought her home a bride 
to Windyhough and had kissed her loneliness away. 

“What’s to fear? War or peace — what’s to fear? 
We’re not children, wife o’ mine.” 

And “ No ! ” she said, with brave submissiveness. And 
then again her face clouded with woe, and tenderness, and 
longing, as when hill-mists gather round the sun. “ Ah, but 
yes ! ” she added petulantly. “We are like children — like chil- 
dren straying in the dark. You see the Prince taking Lon- 
don, with skirl of the pipes and swinging Highland kilts. 
I see you kneeling, husband, with your head upon the 
block.” 

Sir Jasper laughed quietly, standing to his full, brave 
height. “ And either way it does not matter, wife — so long 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


59 

as the Prince has need of me. You’ll find me kneeling, one 
way or the other.” 

From the shadowed hall, with the candles flickering in the 
sconces, their son came out into the open — their son, who 
could not go to war because he was untrained. He had been 
listening to them. 

“ Father,” he said, “ I must ride with you. Indeed, I can- 
not stay at home.” 

Sir Jasper answered hastily, as men will when they stand 
in the thick of trouble. “ What, you ? You cannot, lad. 
Your place is here, as I told you — to guard your mother and 
Windyhough.” 

The lad winced, and turned to seek the shadows again, 
after one long, searching glance at the other’s unrelenting 
face. And Lady Royd forgot the past. She followed him, 
brought him back again into the candlelight. One sharp 
word from the father had bidden her protect this son who 
was bone of her bone. Rupert looked at her in wonder. 
She had been his enemy till now ; yet suddenly she was his 
friend. 

He looked gravely at her — a man of five-and-twenty, who 
should have known better than to blurt out the deeper 
thoughts that in prudent folk lie hidden. “ Mother,” he said, 
striving to keep the listless, care-naught air that was his 
refuge against the day’s intrusions — “ mother ” 

She had not heard the word before — not as it reached her 
now — because she had not asked for it. It was as if she 
had lived between four stuffy walls, fearing to go out into 
the gladness and the pain of motherhood. 

“Yes, boy?” she asked, with lover-like impatience for the 
answer. 

“ You are kind to — to pity me. But it seems to make it 
harder,” he said with extreme simpleness. “ I’m no son to 
be proud of, mother.” His voice was low, uncertain, as he 
looked from one to the other of these two who had brought 
him into a troubled world. 


60 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Then he glanced shyly at his father. “ I could die, sir, 
for the Prince,” he added, with a touch of humour. “ But 
they say I cannot live for him.” 

The wife looked at the husband. And pain crossed be- 
tween them like a fire. He was so big of heart, this lad, 
and yet he was left stranded here in the backwater of life. 

Sir Jasper laid a hand on his shoulder. “ You’re no fool, 
Rupert,” he said, fierce in his desire to protect the lad from 
his own shame. “ I give you the post of honour, after all 
— to guard your mother. We cannot all ride afield, and I’m 
leaving some of our men with you.” 

“Yes,” said Rupert; “you leave the lamesters, father — 
the men who are past service, whose joints are crazy.” 

He was bitter. This Rising had fired his chivalry, his 
dreams of high adventure, his race-instinct for a Stuart and 
the Cause. He had dreamed of it during these last, eager 
nights, had freed himself from daytime weakness, and had 
ridden out, a leader, along the road that led through Lan- 
cashire to London. And the end of it was this — he was to 
be left at home, because straight-riding men were hindered 
by the company of an untrained comrade. 

The father saw it all. He had not watched this son of his 
for naught through five-and-twenty years of hope that he 
would yet grow strong enough to prove himself the fitting 
heir. It was late, and Sir Jasper had to make preparation 
for a ride to market at dawn; but he found time to spare 
for Rupert’s needs. 

“ Come with me, Rupert,” he said, putting an arm through 
his son’s. “ It was always in my mind that Windyhough 
might be besieged, and I have you here — in command, you 
understand.” 

“ In command ? ” Rupert was alert, incredulous. “ That 
was the way my dreams went, father.” 

“ Dreams come true, just time and time. You should 
count it a privilege, my lad, to stay at home. It is easier to 
ride out.” 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


61 


Lady Royd, as she watched them go arm-in-arm together 
through the hall, was in agreement with her husband. It 
was easier to ride out than to sit at home, as scholars and 
women did, waiting emptily for news that, when it came, 
was seldom pleasant. Already, though her husband had not 
got to saddle, she was counting the hazards that were sure 
to meet him on the road to London. And yet some sense 
of comfort whispered at her ear. Her son was left behind 
to guard her. She lingered on the thought, and with twenty 
womanish devices she hedged it round, until at last she half 
believed it. This boy of hers was to guard her. In her heart 
she knew that the storm of battle would break far away from 
Windyhough, that in the event of peril Rupert must prove 
a slender reed; but she was yielding to impulse just now, and 
felt the need to see her son a hero. 

Sir Jasper, meanwhile, was going from room to room of 
the old house, from one half-forgotten stairway to another. 
He showed Rupert how each window — old loop-holes, most 
of them, filled in with glass to fit modern needs — commanded 
some useful outlook on an enemy attacking Windyhough. 
He showed him the cellars, where the disused muskets and 
the cannon lay, and the piles of leaden balls, and the kegs 
of gunpowder. 

“ You’re in command, remember,” he said now and then, 
as they made their tour of the defences. “ You must carry 
every detail with you. You must be ready.” 

To Sir Jasper all this was a fairy-tale he told — a clumsy 
tale enough, but one designed to soften the blow to his heir; 
to Rupert it was a trumpet-note that roused his sleeping 
manhood. 

“ I have it all by heart, father,” he said eagerly. Then he 
glanced sharply at Sir Jasper. “ No one ever— ever trusted 
me till now,” he said. “ It was trust I needed, maybe.” 

Sir Jasper was ashamed. Looking at Rupert, with his 
lean body, the face that was lit with strength and purpose, he 
repented of the nursery-tale he had told him— the tale of 


62 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

i 

leadership, of an attack upon the house, of the part which one 
poor scholar was asked to play in it. 

“ Get up to bed, dear lad,” he said huskily. “ I’ve told 
you all that need be. Sleep well, until you’re wanted.” 

But Rupert could not sleep. He was possessed by the 
beauty of this hope that had wound itself, a silver thread, 
through the drab pattern of his life. He let his father go 
down into the hall, then followed, not wishing to play eaves- 
dropper again, but needing human comradeship. 

Lady Royd, weaving dreams of her own downstairs, 
glanced up as she heard her husband’s step. 

“ Oh, you were kind to the boy,” she said, comelier since 
she found her motherhood. 

He put her aside. “ I was not kind, wife. I lied to him.” 

“ In a good cause, my dear.” 

“No!” His fierceness shocked her; for until now she 
had been unused to vehemence. “ Lies never served a good 
cause yet. I told him — God forgive me, Agnes! — that he 
would be needed here. He has pluck, and this notion of 
leadership — it went to his head like wine, and I felt as if I’d 
offered drink to a lad whose head was too weak for honest 
liquor.” 

She moved restlessly about the hall. “ Yet in the summer 
you had kegs of gunpowder brought in,” she said by and 
by — “ under the loaded hay-wagons, you remember, lest 
George’s spies were looking on ? ” 

There would be little room for tenderness in the days that 
were coming, and, perhaps for that reason, Sir Jasper drew 
his wife toward him now. He was thinking of the hay- 
time, of the last load brought in by moonlight, of the English 
strength and fragrance of this country life to which he was 
saying goodbye. 

“ I wooed you in haytime, Agnes, and married you when 
the men were bending to their scythes the next year, and 
we brought the gunpowder in at the like season. We’ll take it 
for an omen.” 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


63 


“ And yet,” she murmured, with remembrance of her son — 
the son who was the firstfruit of their wooing — “ you 
said that you had lied to Rupert when you bade him guard 
the house. Why bring in gunpowder, except to load your 
muskets with?” 

He sighed impatiently. This parting from the wife and 
son grew drearier the closer it approached. “ We had other 
plans in the summer. It was to be a running fight, we 
thought, from Carlisle down through Lancashire. Every 
manor was to be held as a halting-place when the Prince’s 
army needed rest.” 

He crossed to the big western window of the hall, and 
stood looking up at the moonlit, wintry hills. Then he turned 
again, not guessing that his son was standing in the shadows 
close at his right hand. 

“ Other counsels have prevailed,” he said, with the snap- 
pishness of a man who sees big deeds awaiting him and 
doubts his human strength. “ I think the Prince did not 
know, Agnes, how slow we are to move in Lancashire — how 
quick to strike, once we’re sure of the road ahead. Each 
manor that held out for the King — it would have brought 
a hundred doubters to the Cause ; the army would have felt 
its way southward, growing like a snowball as it went. They 
say the Prince overruled his counsellors. God grant that he 
was right ! ” 

“So there’s to be no siege of Windyhough?” asked Lady 
Royd slowly. 

“ None that I can see. It is to be a flying charge on Lon- 
don. The fighting will be there, or in the Midlands.” 

“ That is good hearing, so far as anything these days can 
be called good hearing. Suppose your lie had prospered, 
husband? Suppose Rupert had had to face a siege in earnest 
here? Oh, I’ve been blind, but now I — I understand the 
shame you would have put on him, when he was asked to 
hold the house and could not.” 

“ He could ! ” snapped Sir Jasper. “ I’ve faith in the lad, 


64 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

I tell you. A Royd stands facing trouble always when the 
pinch comes.” 

She looked at him wistfully, with a sense that he was years 
older than herself in steadiness, years younger in his virile 
grip on faith. It was an hour when danger and the coming 
separation made frank confession easy. “ I share your 
Faith,” she said quietly, “ but I’m not devout as you are. 
Oh, miracles — they happened once, but not to-day. This boy 
of ours — can you see him holding Windyhough against 
trained soldiery? Can you hear him sharp with the word of 
command ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the other, with the simplicity of trust. “ If the 
need comes, he will be a Royd.” 

“ Dear, you cannot believe it ! I, who long to, cannot. 
No leader ever found his way — suddenly — without prepara- 
tion ” 

“ No miracle was ever wrought in that way,” he broke in, 
with the quiet impatience of one who knows the road behind, 
but not the road ahead. “ There are no sudden happenings 
in this life — and I’ve trained the lad’s soul to leadership. I 
would God that I’d not lied to him to-night — I would that 
the siege could come in earnest.” 

Rupert crept silently away, down the passage, and through 
the hall, and out into the night. Through all his troubles 
he had had one strength to lean upon — his father’s trust and 
comradeship. And now that was gone. He had heard Sir 
Jasper talk of the siege as of a dream-toy thrown to him to 
play with. In attack along the London road, or in defence 
at home, he was untrained, and laughable, and useless. 

There was war in his blood as he paced up and down the 
courtyard. His one ally had deserted him, had shown him 
a tender pity that was worse to bear than ridicule. He stood 
alone, terribly alone, in a world that had no need of him. 

The wind came chill and fretful from the moor, blowing a 
light drift of sleet before it ; and out of the lonely land a sud- 
den hope and strength reached out to him. It was in the 


THE HURRIED DAYS 


65 


breed of him, deep under his shyness and scholarly aloofness, 
this instinct to stand at his stiffest when all seemed lost. He 
would stay at home. He would forget that he had over- 
heard his father’s confession of a lie, would get through each 
day as it came, looking always for an attack that, by some 
unexpected road, might reach the gates of Windyhough. 

But there was another task he had — to forgive Sir Jasper 
for the make-believe — and this proved harder. Forgiveness 
is no easy matter to achieve; it cannot be feigned, or hur- 
ried, or find root in shallow soil; it comes by help of blood 
and tears, wayfaring together through the dark night of a 
man’s soul. 

Rupert went indoors at last, and met Sir Jasper at the 
stairfoot. 

“ Why, lad, I thought you were in bed long since.” 

“ I could not rest indoors, sir. I — I needed room.” 

“ We’re all of the same breed,” laughed his father. 
“ House-walls never yet helped a man to peace. Good-night, 
my lad — and remember you’re on guard here.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE LOYAL MEET 

Two days later Sir Jasper and Maurice sat at breakfast. 
There was a meet of hounds that morning, and, because the 
hour was early, Lady Royd was not down to share the meal. 
It was cold enough after full sunrise, she was wont to say, 
with her lazy laughing drawl, and not the most devoted wife 
could be expected to break her fast by candlelight. 

Sir Jasper, for his part, ate with appetite this morning. 
The unrest of the past weeks had been like a wind from the 
north to him, sharpening his vigour, driving out the little 
weaknesses and doubts bred of long inaction. And, as he 
ate, old Simon Foster, his man-of-all-work, opened the door 
and put in the grizzled head which reminded his master always 
of a stiff broom that had lately swept the snow. 

“ Here’s Maister Oliphant,” said Simon gruffly. “ Must 
I let him in ? ” 

“ Indeed you must,” laughed Oliphant, putting him aside 
and stepping into the room. “ My business will not wait, 
Sir Jasper, though Simon here is all for saying that it crosses 
you to be disturbed at breakfast-time.” 

The two men glanced quickly at each other. “ You’re 
looking in need of a meal yourself, Oliphant. Sit down, man, 
and help us with this dish of devilled kidneys.” 

Oliphant, long ago, had learned to take opportunity as it 
came; and meals, no less than his chances of passing on the 
messages entrusted to him, were apt to prove haphazard and 
to be seized at once. Old Simon, while they ate, hovered up 
and down the room, eager for the news, until his master dis- 
missed him with a curt “ You may leave us, Simon.” 

Simon obeyed, but he closed the door with needless vio- 

66 


THE LOYAL MEET 


67 

lence; and they could hear him clattering noisily down the 
passage, as if he washed his hands of the whole Rising busi- 
ness. 

“You may leave ua, Simon!” he growled. “That’s all 
Sir Jasper has to say, after I’m worn to skin and bone in 
serving him. And he must know by this time, surely, that 
he alius gets into scrapes unless I’m nigh-handy, like, to 
advise him what to do. Eh, well, maisters is maisters, and 
poor serving-men is serving-men, and so ’twill be till th’ end 
o’ the chapter, I reckon. But I wish I knew what Maister 
Oliphant rade hither-till to tell Sir Jasper.” 

Oliphant looked across at his host, after Simon’s heavy 
footfalls told them he was out of earshot. “ The hunt comes 
this way, Sir Jasper, with hounds in full cry. I see you’re 
dressed for the chase.” 

‘'And have been since — since I was breeked, I think. 
When, Oliphant ? It seems too good to be true. All 
Lancashire is asking when, and I’m tired of telling 
them to bide until they hear Tally-ho go sounding up the 
moors.” 

“ You start at dawn to-morrow. Ride into Langton, and 
wait till you see the hounds in full view.” 

“ And the scent — how does it lie, Oliphant ? ” 

“ Keen and true, sir. I saw one near the Throne three days 
ago, and he said that he had never known a blither hunting- 
time.” 

They had talked in guarded terms till now — the terms of 
Jacobite freemasonry; but Sir Jasper’s heart grew too full 
on the sudden for tricks of speech. “ God bless him ! ” he 
cried, rising to the toast. “ There’ll be a second Restoration 
yet.” 

Maurice, his face recovered from traces of the fight with 
his stubborn brother, had been abashed a little by Oliphant’s 
coming, for, like Rupert, he had the gift of hero-worship. 
But now he, too, got to his feet, and his face was full of boy- 
ish zeal. “ We’ll hunt that fox of yours, Mr. Oliphant,” he 


68 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


laughed — “ ay, as far as the sea. We’ll make him swim — 
over the water, where our toasts have gone.” 

“ He’s bred true to the old stock, Sir Jasper,” laughed 
Oliphant. “ I wish every loyalist in Lancashire had sons 
like Maurice here to bring with him.” 

Sir Jasper found no answer. An odd sadness crossed his 
face, showing lines that were graven deeper than Oliphant 
had guessed. “ Come, we shall be late for the meet,” he said 
gruffly. “ Oliphant, do you stay and rest yourself here, or 
will you ride with us? The meet is at Easterfield to-day.” 

“ As far as the cross-roads, then. My way lies into Lang- 
ton.” 

Oliphant’s tone was curt as his host’s, for he was puzzled 
by this sudden coolness following his praise of Maurice. As 
they crossed the courtyard to the stables he saw Sir Jasper 
glance up at the front of the house, and there, at an upper 
window, Rupert the heir was watching the stronger men 
ride out to hunt the fox. He saw the misery in the lad’s 
face, the stubborn grief in the father’s, and a new page was 
turned for him in that muddled book of life which long 
night-riding had taught him to handle with tender and ex- 
treme care. 

At the cross-ways they parted. All had been arranged 
months since; the proven men in Lancashire, as in other 
counties, were known to the well-wishers of the Prince. 
Each had his part allotted to him, and Sir Jasper’s was to 
rally all his hunting intimates. So far as preparation went, 
this campaign of the Stuart against heavy odds had been 
well served. The bigger work — the glad and instant wish 
of every King’s man to rally to the call, forgetting ease of 
body, forgetting wives and children — was in the making, and 
none knew yet what luck would go with it. 

“ At Langton to-morrow,” said Oliphant, over-shoulder, as 
he reined about. 

“ Yes, God willing — and, after Langton, such a fire lit as 
will warm London with its flames.” 


THE LOYAL MEET 


69 

When they got to Easterfield, Maurice and his father, the 
sun was shining on a street of melting snow, following a quick 
and rainy thaw, on well-groomed men and horses, on hounds 
eager to be off on the day’s business. And, as luck had it, 
they found a game fox that took them at a tearing gallop, 
five miles across the wet and heavy pastures, before they 
met a check. 

The check lasted beyond the patience of the hunters, and 
Sir Jasper chose his moment well. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, rising in his stirrups — “ gentlemen, 
the meet is at my house of Windyhough to-morrow. Who 
rides with me ? ” 

The field gathered round him. He was a man command- 
ing men, and he compelled attention. 

“ What meet ? ” asked Squire Demaine, his ruddy face 
brick-red with sudden hope. 

“ The Loyal Meet. Who’s with me, gentlemen ? ” 

Sir Jasper was strung to that pitch of high endeavour 
which sees each face in a crowd and knows what impulse 
sways it. They gathered round him to a man; but as he 
glanced from one to the other he knew that there were many 
waverers. For loyalty, free and unswerving, sets a light 
about a man’s face that admits no counterfeit. 

Yet the din was loud enough to promise that all were of one 
mind here. Hounds and fox and huntsmen were forgotten. 
Men waved their hats and shouted frantically. Nance Demaine 
and the half-dozen ladies who were in the field to-day found 
little kerchiefs and waved them, too, and were shrill and san- 
guine in their cries of “ The Prince, God bless him ! — the 
Prince ! — the Stuart home again ! ” 

It was all like Bedlam, while the austere hills, lined here 
and there with snow that would not melt, looked down on 
this warmth of human enterprise. The horses reared and 
fidgeted, dismayed by the uproar. Hounds got out of hand 
and ran in and out between the plunging hoofs, while the 
huntsman, a better fox-hunter than King’s man, swore 


70 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

roundly and at large as he tried to bring them out of this out- 
rageous riot. 

“ Where’s Will Underwood ? ” asked a youngster suddenly. 
It was young Hunter of Hunterscliff, whose lukewarmness 
had angered Nance not long ago. “ It’s the first meet he’s 
missed this winter.” 

A horseman at his elbow laughed, the laugh that men un- 
derstood. “ He had business in the south, so he told me 
when I met him taking the coach. Wild Will, from the look 
of his face, seemed tired of hunting.” 

“No!” said Sir Jasper sharply. “I’ll have no man con- 
demned without a hearing. He lives wide of here — perhaps 
this last news of the Rising has not reached him. Any man 
may be called away on sudden business.” 

“ You’re generous, sir. I’m hot for the King, and no 
other business in the world would tempt me out of Lanca- 
shire just now. Besides, he must have known.” 

Nance had lost her high spirits; but she was glad that some 
one had spoken on Will Underwood’s behalf, for otherwise 
she must have yielded to the impulse to defend him. 

“ That does not follow, sir,” said Sir Jasper, punctilious 
in defence of a man he neither liked nor trusted. “ At any 
rate, it is no time for accusation. Mr. Underwood, if I know 
him, will join us farther south.” 

Young Hunter, a wayward, unlicked cub, would not keep 
silence. “ Yes,” he said, in his thin, high-pitched voice, “ he’ll 
join us as far south as London — after he’s sure that a Stuart’s 
on the throne again.” 

An uneasy silence followed. Older men looked at older 
men, knowing that they shared this boy’s easy summing-up 
of Underwood’s motives. And Nance wondered that this 
man, whom she was near to loving, had no friends here — 
no friends of the loyal sort who came out into the open and 
pledged their faith in him. 

There was a game hound of the pack — a grey old hound 
that, like the huntsman, was a keener fox-hunter than loyal- 


THE LOYAL MEET 


71 


ist; and, through all this uproar and confusion, through the 
dismayed silence that followed, he had been nosing up and 
down the pastures, finding a weak scent here, a false trail 
there. And now, on the sudden, he lifted his grey head, and 
his note was like a bugle-call. The younger hounds scam- 
pered out from among the hoofs that had been playing dan- 
gerously near them and gave full tongue as they swung down 
the pastures. 

Sir Jasper spurred forward. “ Here’s an omen, friends,” 
he cried. “ The hunt is up in earnest. We shall kill, I tell 
you ! we shall kill ! ” 

It was a run that afterwards, when the fires of war died 
down and all Lancashire was hunting once again in peace, 
was talked of beside cottage hearths, on market-days when 
squires and yeomen met for barter — was talked of wherever 
keen, lusty men foregathered for the day’s business and for 
gossip of the gallant yesterdays. 

Sir Jasper led, with Squire Demaine close at his heels. It 
seemed, indeed, the day of older folk; for away in front of 
them, where the sterns of eager hounds waved like a frantic 
sea, it was Pincher — grey, hefty, wise in long experience — 
that kept the running. 

Prince Charles Edward was forgotten, though he had need 
of these gentlemen on the morrow. After all, with slighter 
excuse, they might any one of them break their necks to-day 
in pursuit of the lithe red fox that showed like a running 
splash of colour far ahead. The day was enough for them, 
with its rollicking hazards, its sense of sheer pace and well- 
being. 

Down Littlemead Ings the fox led them, and up the hill 
that bordered Strongstones Coppice. He sought cover in 
the wood, but Pincher, with a buoyant, eager yell, dislodged 
him; and for seven miles, fair or foul going, they followed 
that racing blotch of red. There were fewer horsemen now, 
but most of them kept pace, galloping hard behind Sir Jasper 
and the Squire, who were riding neck for neck. The fox, 


72 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


as it happened, was in his own country again, after a so- 
journ he regretted in alien pastures ; and he headed straight 
for the barren lands of rock and scanty herbage that lay up 
the slopes of Rother Hill. The going was steep and slip- 
pery, the scent cold, because snow was lying on these upper 
lands ; and the fox, who knew all this a little better than 
Pincher, plunged through a snowdrift that hid the opening of 
his favourite cave and knew himself secure. They could dig 
him> out from a burrow, but this cave was long and winding, 
and all its quiet retreats were known to him. 

Pincher, the grey, hefty hound, plunged his nose into the 
snow, then withdrew it and began to whimper. He was 
unused to this departure from the usual rules of fox-hunt- 
ing; the snow was wet and chilly, and touched, maybe, some 
note of superstition common to hounds and hill-bred men. 
Superstition, at any rate, or some grave feeling, was patent 
in the faces of the riders. The huntsman, knowing the wind- 
ings of the cave as well as Reynard, gathered his pack. 

“ They’d be lost for ever and a day, Sir Jasper,” he growled, 
“ if once they got into that cave. I followed it once for a 
mile and a half myself, and then didn’t reach the end of it.” 

Sir Jasper glanced at Squire Demaine, and found the same 
doubt in his face. They had chosen this gallop as an augury, 
and they had not killed. It is slight matters of this sort that 
are apt constantly to turn the balance of big adventures, and 
the two older men knew well enough how the waverers were 
feeling. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Sir Jasper sharply, “ we’re not like 
children. There’s no omen in all this. I jested when I talked 
of omens.” 

“ By gad, yes ! ” sputtered the Squire, backing his friend 
with a bluster that scarcely hid his own disquiet. “ There’s 
only one good omen for to-morrow, friends — a strong body, 
a sound sword arm, and a leal heart for the King. We’ll 
not go back to the nursery, by your leave, because a fox skulks 
into hiding.” 


THE LOYAL MEET 


73 


There was a waving of three-cornered hats again, a mur- 
mur of applause; but the note did not ring true and merry, 
as it had done at the start of this wild gallop. The horses 
were shivering in a bitter wind that had got up from behind 
the hollows of the uplands. Grey-blue clouds crept round 
about the sun and stifled him, and sleet began to fall. They 
were children of the weather to a man, and to-morrow’s ride 
for London and the Stuart took on the semblance of a Lenten 
fast. 


CHAPTER V 


THE HORSE-THIEF 

At Windyhough, Rupert had watched Sir Jasper and his 
brother ride out to the hunt, had felt the old pang of jealousy 
and helplessness. They were so hale and keen on the day’s 
business; and he was not one of them. 

He turned impatiently from the upper window, not guess- 
ing that his father had carried the picture of his tired face 
with him to the meet. With some thought of getting up into 
the moor, to still his restlessness, he went down the stair and 
out into the courtyard. Lady Royd, who had not lain easy 
in her bed this morning, was standing there. Some stronger 
call than luxury and well-being had bidden her get up and 
steal into the windy, nipping air, to watch her men ride out. 
She was late, as she was for all appointments, and some bitter 
loneliness had taken hold of her when she found them gone. 
She had never been one of these gusty, unswerving people 
here in Lancashire, and their strength was as foreign to her 
as their weaknesses. Until her marriage with the impulsive 
northern lover who had come south to the wooing and had 
captured her girl’s fancy, she had lived in the lowlands, 
where breezes played for frolic only; and the bleakness of 
these hills had never oppressed her as it did this morning. 
She forgot the swift and magic beauty that came with the 
late-wop_spring, forgot how every slope and dingle of this 
northern country wakened under the sun’s touch, how the 
stark and empty moor grew rich with colour, how blackbird 
and lavrock, plover and rook and full-throated thrush made 
music wild and exquisite under the blue, happy sky. For the 
present, the wind was nipping; on the higher hill-crests snow 
lay like a burial-shroud ; her husband and the younger son she 

74 


THE HORSE THEIF 


75 


idolised were riding out to-morrow on a perilous road because 
they had listened to that haunting, unhappy melody which all 
the Stuarts had the gift of sounding. 

Lady Royd could not see beyond. Her faith was colder 
than the hills which frightened her, emptier than this winter- 
time she hated. She had not once captured the quiet, reso- 
lute note that sounded through her husband’s conduct of 
affairs. Let the wind whistle its keenest under a black and 
sullen sky, Sir Jasper knew that he was chilled, as she did; 
but he knew, too, that summer would follow, blithe and full 
of hay-scents, fuller, riper in warmth and well-being, because 
the months of cold had fed its strength. 

She chose to believe that he was playing with a fine, ro- 
mantic sense of drama, in following the Prince, that he was 
sacrificing Maurice to the same misplaced zeal. Yet hour 
by hour and day by day of their long companionship, he had 
made it plain, to a comrade less unwilling, that he had fol- 
lowed a road marked white at every milestone by a faith that 
would not budge, an obedience to the call of honour that was 
instinctive, instant, as the answer of a soldier to his com- 
manding officer. If all went amiss with this Rising, if he 
gave his life for a lost cause, it did not matter greatly to Sir 
Jasper; for he was sure that in one world or another, a little 
sooner or a little later, he would see that Restoration whose 
promise shone like the morning star above the staunch, un- 
bending hills of Lancashire. 

“ Who is to gain by it all ? ” murmured Lady Royd, shiver- 
ing as she drew her wrap about her. “ When I’m widowed, 
and Maurice has gone, too, to Tower Hill — shall I hate these 
Stuart fools the less ? It matters little who is king — so 
little- ” 

She heard Rupert’s step behind her, turned and regarded 
him with that half-tolerant disdain which had stood to her for 
motherhood. Not long ago she had felt a touch of some 
divine compassion for him, had been astonished by the pain 
and happiness that pity teaches; but the mood had passed, 


76 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


and he stood to her now: as a simpleton so exquisite that he had 
not strength even to follow 1 the stupid creeds he cherished. 
She was in no temper to spare him ; he was a welcome butt on 
which to vent her weariness of all things under the sun. 

They looked at each other, silent, questioning. Big happen- 
ings were in the making. The very air of Lancashire these 
days was instinct with the coming troubles, and folk were 
restless, ill-at-ease as moor-birds are when thunder comes beat- 
ing up against the wind. 

“ It is not my fault, mother,” said Rupert brusquely, as if 
answering some plainly-spoken challenge. “If I had my 
way, I’d be taking fences, too — but, then, I never had my 
way.” 

Lady Royd laughed gently — the frigid, easy laugh that Ru- 
pert knew by heart. “ A man,” she said, halting on the word 
— “ a man makes his way, if he’s to have it. The babies stay 
at home, and blame the dear God because He will not let them 
hunt like other men.” 

Rupert took fire on the sudden, as he had done not long 
since when he had fought with his brother on the moor. Old 
indignities were brought to a head. He did not know what 
he said; but Lady Royd bent her head, as if a moorland 
tempest beat about her. It seemed as if the whole unrest, the 
whole passion and heedlessness, of the Stuart battle against 
circumstance had gathered to a head in this wind-swept court- 
yard of the old fighting house of Windyhough. 

And the combatants were a spoilt wife on one hand, on 
the other a scholar who had not yet found his road in life. 
The battle should have given food for laughter ; yet the scholar 
wore something of his father’s dignity and spirit, and the 
woman was slow to admit a mastery that pleased and troubled 
her. 

Again there was a silence. The east wind was piping 
through and through the courtyard, and rain was falling ; but 
on the high moors there were drifts of snow that would not 
yield to the gusty warmth. All was upset, disordered — rain, 


THE HORSE THEIF 


77 


and snow, and wind, were all at variance, as if they shared 
the unrest and the tumult of the times. 

“You — you hurt me, Rupert,” she said weakly. 

“ I had no right, mother,” he broke in, contrite. “ Of 
course I am the heir — and I was never strong, as you had 
wished — and — and I spoke in heat.” 

“ I like your heat, boy,” she said unexpectedly. “ Oh, you 
were right, were right ! You never had a chance.” 

He put his hand on her arm — gently, as a lover or a cour- 
tier might. “ Maurice should have been the heir. It cannot 
be helped, mother — but you’ve been kind to me through it all.” 

Lady Royd was dismayed. Her husband had yielded to her 
whims ; the folk about her had liked her beauty, her easy, 
friendly insolence, the smile which comes easily to women 
who are spoilt and have luxury at command. She had been 
sure of herself till now — till now, when the son she had made 
light of was at pains to salve her conscience. He was a stay- 
at-home, a weakling. There was no glamour attaching to 
him, no riding-out to high endeavour among the men who were 
making or were marring history. Yet now, to the mother’s 
fancy, he was big of stature. 

She yielded to a sharp, dismaying pity. “ My dear,” she 
said, with a broken laugh, “ you talk like your father — like 
your father when I like him most and disagree with his mad 
view of life.” 

Rupert went to bed that night — after his father and Maurice 
had returned muddied from a hunt he had not shared, after 
the supper that had found him silent and without appetite — 
with a sense of keen and personal disaster that would not let 
him sleep. Through all his dreams — the brave, unspoiled 
dreams of boyhood — he had seen this Rising take its present 
shape. His father’s teaching, his stealthy reading in the li- 
brary of books that could only better a sound Stuart faith, had 
prepared him for the Loyal Meet that was to gather at 
Windyhough with to-morrow’s dawn. But in his dreams he had 
been a rider among loyal riders, had struck a blow here and 


78 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


there for the Cause he had at heart. In plain reality, with the 
wind sobbing, round the gables overhead, he was not disci- 
plined enough to join the hunt. He was untrained. 

Maurice shared his elder brother’s bedroom ; and somewhere 
in the dark hours before the dawn he heard Rupert start from 
a broken sleep, crying that the Prince was in some danger and 
needed him. Maurice was tired after the day’s hunting, and 
knew that he must be up betimes ; and a man’s temper at such 
times is brittle. 

“ Get to sleep, Rupert ! ” he growled. “ The Prince will be 
none the better for your nightmares.” 

Rupert was silent. He knew it was true. No man would 
ever be the better, he told himself, for the help of a dreamer 
and a weakling. He heard his brother turn over, heard the 
heavy, measured breathing. He had no wish for sleep, but 
lay listening -to the sleet that was driving at the window-panes. 
It was bitter cold, and dark beyond belief. Whatever chanced 
with the Prince’s march to London, there was something to 
chill the stoutest faith in this night-hour before the dawn. 
Yet the scholar chose this moment for a sudden hope, a 
warmth of impulse and of courage. Down the sleety wind, 
from the moors he loved, a trumpet-call seemed to ring sharp 
and clear. And the call sounded boot-and-saddle. 

He sprang from bed and dressed himself, halted to be sure 
that Maurice was still sound asleep, felt his way through the 
pitch-dark of the room until he reached the door. Then he 
went down, unbarred the main door with gentle haste, and 
stood in the windy courtyard. It was a wet night and a 
stormy one on Windyhough Heights. Now and then the 
moon ran out between the grey-black, scudding clouds and 
lit a world made up of rain and emptiness. 

And Rupert again heard the clear, urgent call. Slight of 
body, a thing of small account set in the middle of this ma- 
jestic uproar of the heath, he squared his shoulders, looked 
at the house-front, the fields, the naked, wind-swept coppices, 
to which he was the heir. 


THE HORSE THEIF 


79 

Old tradition, some instinct fathered by many generations, 
rendered him greater than himself. “ Get to saddle,” said the 
voice at his ear; and he forgot that the ways of a horse were 
foreign to him. He glanced once again at the heath, as if 
asking borrowed strength, then crept like a thief toward 
the stables. 

It was near dawn now. The wind, tired out, had sunk to a 
low, piping breeze. The moon shone high and white from a 
sky cleared of all but the filmiest clouds ; and over the eastern 
hummocks of the moor lithe, palpitating streaks of rose, and 
grey, and amber were ushering up the sun. 

All was uproar in the stable-yard, and the future master of 
these grooms and farm-lads waited in the shadows — a looker- 
on, as always. He saw a lanthorn swinging up and down the 
yard, confusing still more the muddled light of moon and 
dawn ; and then he heard Giles, his father’s bailiff, laugh as he 
led out Sir Jasper’s horse, and listened while the man swore, 
with many a rich Lancashire oath, that Rising work was better 
than keeping books and harrying farmers when they would 
not pay their rents. And still Rupert waited, watching sturdy 
yeomen ride in from Pendle Forest, on nags as well built as 
themselves, to answer Sir Jasper’s rally-call. 

“ ’Tis only decent-like, Giles,” he heard one ruddy yeoman 
say, “ to ride in a little before our betters need us. I was never 
one to be late at a hunt, for my part.” 

“ It all gangs gradely,” Giles answered cheerily. “ By 
dangment, though, the dawn’s nearer than I thought ; and I’ve 
my own horse to saddle yet.” 

Rupert waited with great patience for his chance — waited 
until Giles came out again, leading a thick-set chestnut that 
had carried him on many a bailiff’s errand. And in the wait- 
ing his glow of courage and high purpose grew chilled. He 
watched the lanthoms bobbing up and down the yard, watched 
the dawn sweep bold and crimson over this crowd of busy 
folk. He was useless, impotent ; he had no part in action, no 
place among these men, strong of their hands, who were 


80 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


getting ready for the battle. Yet, under all the cold and 
shame, he knew that, if he were asked to die for the Cause — 
asked simply, and without need to show himself a fool at 
horsemanship — it would be an easy matter. 

He looked on, and he was lonelier than in the years be- 
hind. Until a day or two ago he had been sure of one thing 
at least — of his father’s trust in him; and Sir Jasper had killed 
that illusion when he taught his heir how Windyhough was to 
be defended against attack and afterwards confessed that it 
was a trick to soothe the lad’s vanity. 

Yet still he waited, some stubborness of purpose behind him. 
And by and by he saw his chance. The stable-yard was empty 
for the moment. Sir Jasper’s men had mustered under the 
house-front, waiting for their leader to come out. Giles had 
left his own horse tethered to a ring outside the stable door, 
while he led the master’s grey and Maurice’s slim, raking 
chestnut into the courtyard. From the bridle-track below 
came the clatter of hoofs, as Sir Jasper’s hunting intimates 
brought in their followers to- the Loyal Meet. On that side 
of the house all was noise, confusion ; on this side, the stable- 
yard lay quiet under the paling moonlight and the ruddy, nip- 
ping dawn. 

Sir Jasper’s heir crossed the yard, as if he planned a theft 
and feared surprisal. There had been horse-thieves among his 
kin, doubtless, long ago when the Royds were founding a fam- 
ily in this turbulent and lawless county; and Rupert was 
but harking back to the times when necessity was the day’s 
gospel. 

He unslipped the bridle of Giles’s horse, and let him 
through the gate that opened on the pastures at the rear of 
Windyhough. Then he went in a wide circle round the 
house, until he reached a wood of birch and rowan that stood 
just above the Langton road. The wind was up again, and 
rain with it; and in the downpour Rupert, holding the bridle 
of a restive horse, waited for the active men to pass him by 
along the road that led to Prince Charles Edward. He could 


THE HORSE THEIF 


81 


not join them at the meet in the courtyard, but he would wait 
here till they passed, he told himself, would get to saddle after- 
wards and ride down and follow them. And in the coming 
battle, may be, he would prove to his father that courage was 
not lacking, after all, in the last heir of the Royd men. 

The front of Windyhough, meanwhile, was busy with men 
and horses, with sheep-dogs that had followed their masters, 
unnoticed and unbidden, from the high farms that bordered 
Windyhough. It might have been Langton market-day, so 
closely and with such laughing comradeship yeomen, squires, 
and hinds rubbed shoulders, while dogs ran in and out be- 
tween their legs and horses whinnied to each other. The 
feudal note was paramount. There was no distrust here, no 
jealousy of class against class; the squires were pledged to de- 
fend those who followed them with healthy and implicit con- 
fidence, their men were loyal in obedience that was neither 
blind nor stupid, but trained by knowledge and the sense of 
discipline, as a soldier’s is. Each squire was a kingly father 
to the men he had gathered from his own acres. In all things, 
indeed, this gathering at Windyhough was moved by the clan 
spirit that had made possible the Prince’s gathering of an 
army in Scotland — that small, ill-equipped army which ‘had 
already routed General Cope at Prestonpans, had compelled 
Edinburgh to applaud its pluck and gallantry, had taken Car- 
lisle Castle, and now was marching through a country, dis- 
affected for the most part, on the forlornest hope that ever 
bade men leave warm hearths. 

Sir Jasper, standing near the main door of Windyhough, 
watched the little companies ride in. He was keen and buoy- 
ant, and would not admit that he was troubled because his own 
judgment and that of his friends was justified. He had 
guessed that one in five of those who had passed their claret 
over the water would prove their faith ; and he had calculated 
to a nicety. One whom he had counted a certain absentee was 
here, to be sure — young Hunter of Hunterscliff, whose tongue 
was more harum-scarum than his heart. But, against this 


82 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


gain of a sword-arm and a dozen men, he had to set Will Un- 
derwood’s absence. Some easy liking for Will’s horseman- 
ship, some instinct to defend him against the common distrust, 
had prompted him to an obstinate, half-hearted faith in the 
man. Yet he was not here, and Sir Jasper guessed unerringly 
what the business was that had taken him wide of Lan- 
cashire. 

Squire Demaine was the last to ride in with his men. He 
could afford to be late; for Pendle Hill, round and stalwart 
up against the crimson, rainy sky, would as soon break away 
from its moorings as Roger Demaine prove truant to his 
faith. 

It was wet and cold, and the errand of these men was not 
one to promise warmth for many a day to come. Yet they 
raised a cheer when old Roger pushed his big, hard-bitten 
chestnut through the crowd. And when they saw that his 
daughter was with him, riding the grey mare that had known 
many a hunting morn, their cheers grew frantic. For at these 
times men learn the way of their hearts, and know the folk 
whose presence brings a sense of well-being. 

Sir Jasper had not got to saddle yet. He stood at the door, 
with his wife and Maurice, greeting all new-comers, and 
hoping constantly that there were laggards to come in. He 
reached up a hand to grasp the Squire’s. 

“ The muster’s small, old friend,” he said. 

“ Well, what else? ” growled Roger. “ We know our Lan- 
cashire — oh, by the Heart, we know it through and through.” 
He glanced round the courtyard, with the free, wind-trained 
eye that saw each face, each detail. “ There’s few like to 
make a hard bed for themselves, Jasper. Best leave our 
feather-bed folk at home.” 

Sir Jasper, with a twinge of pain to which long use had ac- 
customed him, thought of Rupert, his heir. He glanced aside 
from the trouble, and for the first time saw that Nance was 
close behind her father. 

“Does Nance go with us?” he asked, with a quick smile. 


THE HORSE THEIF 


88 


She can ride as well as the best of ns — we know as much, 
but women are not soldiers these days, Roger.” 

Squire Demaine looked round for a face he did not find. 
“No, she stays here at Windyhough. Where’s Rupert? I 
always trusted that quiet lad.” 

“ He’s gone up to the moors, sir, I think,” said Maurice, 
with some impulse to defend the absent brother. “ He was 
full of nightmares just before dawn— talking of the Prince, 
\vho needed him — and he was gone when I got up at day- 
break.” 

“Well, he’ll return,” snapped the Squire; “and, though I 
say it, he’ll find a bonnie nestling here at Windyhough. 
Nance, tell the lad that I trust him. And now, Jasper, we’ll 
be late for the meet on the Langton Road, unless we bestir 
ourselves.” 

Sir Jasper, under all his unswerving zeal, grew weak with 
a fine human tenderness. He turned, caught his wife’s glance, 
wondered in some odd, dizzy way why he had chosen to tear 
his heart out by the roots. And Rupert was not here ; he had 
longed to say goodbye to him, and he was hiding somewhere, 
full of shame that was too heavy for his years — oh, yes, he 
knew the lad ! 

He passed a hand across his eyes, stooped for a moment and 
whispered some farewell message to his wife, then set his foot 
into the stirrup that Giles was holding for him. His face 
cleared. He had chosen the way of action — and the road lay 
straight ahead. 

“ We’re ready, gentlemen, I take it ? ” he said. “ Good ! 
The Prince might chance to be a little earlier at the meet. 
We’d best be starting.” 

Nance had slipped from the saddle, and stood, with the 
bridle in her hand, watching the riders get into some sem- 
blance of a well-drilled company of horse. At another time 
her quick eye would have seen the humour of it. Small farm- 
ers — and their hinds, on plough-horses — were jostling thor- 
oughbreds. Rough faces that she knew were self-conscious 


84 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


of a new dignity ; rough lips were muttering broad, lively oaths 
as if still they were engaged in persuading their mounts to 
drive a straight furrow. 

Yet to Nance the dignity, the courage, the overwhelming 
pity of it all were paramount. The rain and the ceaseless 
wind in the courtyard here — the wintry moors above, with sleet 
half covering their black austerity — the uneasy whinnying of 
horses that did not like this cold snap of wind, telling of 
snow to come — all made up the burden of a song that was old 
as Stuart haplessness and chivalry. 

The muttered oaths, the restlessness, died down. The drill 
of months had found its answer now. Rough farmers, keen- 
faced yeomen, squires gently-bred, were an ordered company. 
They were equals here, met on a grave business that touched 
their hearts. And Nance gained courage, while she watched 
the men look quietly about them, as if they might not see the 
Lancashire moors again, and were anxious to carry a clear 
picture of the homeland into the unknown. It seemed that 
loyalty so grim, and so unquestioning, was bound to have its 
way. 

She saw, too, that Sir Jasper was resolute, with a cheeriness 
that admitted no denial, saw that her father carried the same 
easy air. Then, with a brisk air of command, Sir Jasper gath- 
ered up his reins and lifted his hat. 

“ For the King, gentlemen ! ” he said. “ It is time we sought 
the Langton Road.” 

It was so they rode out, through a soaking rain and a wind 
that nipped to the bone; and Nance, because she was young 
and untried as yet, felt again the chill of bitter disappoint- 
ment. Like Rupert, her childish dreams had been made up 
of this Loyal Meet that was to happen one day. Year by 
year it had been postponed. Year by year she had heard her 
elders talk of it, when listeners were not about, until it had 
grown to the likeness of a fairy-tale, in which all the knights 
were brave and blameless, all the dragons evil and beyond 
reach of pity for the certain end awaiting them. 


THE HORSE THEIF 


85 


And now the tale was coming true, so far as the riding out 
went. The hunt was up; but there was no flashing of swords 
against the clear sunlight she had pictured, no ringing cheers, 
no sudden music of the pipes. These knights of the fairy-tale 
had proved usual men — men with their sins and doubts and 
personal infirmities, who went on the Prince’s business as if 
they rode to kirk in time of Lent. She was too young to un- 
derstand that the faith behind this rainy enterprise sang swifter 
and more clear than any music of the pipes. 

She heard them clatter down the road. She was soaked to 
the skin, and her mare was fidgeting on the bridle which she 
still held over-tight, forgetting that she grasped it. 

“You will come indoors, Nance?” said Lady Royd, shiver- 
ing at the door. “ They’ve gone, and we are left — and that’s 
the woman’s story always. Men do not care for us, except 
as playthings when they see no chance of shedding blood.” 

Nance came out from her dreams. Not the quiet riding-out, 
not the rain and the bitter wind, had chilled her as did the 
knowledge that Will Underwood was absent from the meet. 
She had hoped, without confessing it, that young Hunter’s 
gibe of yesterday would be disapproved, that Will would be 
there, whatever business had taken him abroad, in time to join 
his fellows. He was not there; and, in the hand that was 
free of her mare’s bridle, she crushed the kerchief she had 
had in readiness. He had asked for it, to wear when he rode 
out — and he had not claimed it — and her pride grew resolute 
and hot, as if one of her father’s hinds had laughed at her. 

“ You’re wet and shivering, child,” said Lady Royd, her 
temper frayed, as always, when men were stupid in their need 
to get away from feather-beds. “ I tell you, men are all 
alike — they follow any will-o’-the-wisp, and name him Faith. 
Faith? What has it done for you or me?” 

Nance quivered, as her mare did, here in the soaking rain 
and the wind that would not be quiet. Yet she was resolute, 
obedient to her training. “Faith?” she said, with an odd 
directness and simplicity. “ It will have to help us through 


86 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


the waiting-time. What else? We are only women here, 
and men too old for battle ” 

“ You forget Rupert,” broke in the other, with the tired 
disdain that Nance hated. The girl did not know how Lady 
Royd was suffering, how heart and strength and sense of well- 
being had gone out with the husband who was all in all to her. 
“ Rupert — the heir — is here to guard us, Nance. The wind 
will rave about the house — dear heart! how it will rave, and 
cry, and whistle — but Rupert will be here! He’ll quiet our 
fears for us. He is — so resolute, shall we say? — so stay-at- 
home. Cannot you see the days to come? ” she went on, seek- 
ing a weak relief from pain in wounding others. “ Rupert 
will come down to us o’ nights, when the corridors are 
draughty with their ghosts, and will tell us he’s been reading 
books — that we need fear no assault, surprisal, because good 
King Charles died for the true faith.” She drew her wrap 
about her and shivered. 

She was so dainty, so young of face, that her spite against 
the first-born gathered strength by contrast. And, somehow, 
warmth returned to Nance, though she was forlorn enough, 
and wet to the skin. “ So he did,” she answered quickly. 
“ No light talk can alter that. The King died — when he 
might have bought his life. He disdained to save himself.” 

Lady Royd laughed gently. “ Oh, come indoors, my girl. 
You’ll find Rupert there — and you can put your heads together, 
studying old books.” 

“ Old books ? Surely we’ve seen a new page turned to- 
day? These men who gathered to the Loyal Meet — were they 
fools, or bookish? Did they show like men who were riding 
out for pastime ? ” 

“ My dear,” said Lady Royd, with a tired laugh, “ the Stuart 
faith becomes you. I see what Sir Jasper meant, when he said 
one day that you were beautiful, and I would have it that 
you had only the prettiness of youth. Rupert ” 

Nance stood at bay, her head up. She did not know her 
heart, or the reason of this quiet, courageous fury that had 


THE HORSE THEIF 


87 


settled on her. “ Rupert fought on the moor — for my sake ; 
you saw the plight Maurice came home in. I tell you, Rupert 
can fight like other men.” 

“ Oh, yes — for books, and causes dead before our time.” 

“ The Cause lives, Lady Royd — to Rupert and myself,” 
broke in Nance impulsively. 

So then the elder woman glanced at her with a new, mock- 
ing interest. “ So the wind sits there, child, does it ? It is 
* Rupert and I ’ to-day — and to-morrow it will be 4 we ’ — and 
what will Mr. Underwood think of the pretty foolery, I 
wonder ? ” 

The girl flushed. This tongue of Lady Royd’s — it was so 
silken, and yet it bit like an unfriendly wind. “ Mr. Under- 
wood’s opinion carries little weight these days,” she said, gath- 
ering her pride together. “ He is known already as the man 
who shirked his first big fence and ran away.” 

“ Oh, then, you’re like the rest of them ! All’s hunting here, 
it seems — you cannot speak without some stupid talk of fox, 
or hounds, or fences. For my part, I like Will Underwood. 
He’s smooth and easy, and a respite from the weather.” 

“ Yes. He is that,” assented Nance, with something of the 
other’s irony. 

“ He’s a rest, somehow, from all the wind and rain and 
downrightness of Lancashire. But, there ! We shall not agree, 
Nance. You’re too like your father and Sir Jasper. Come 
indoors, and get those wet clothes off. We shall take a chill, 
the two of us, if we stand here.” 

Nance shivered, more from heart-chill than from cold of 
body. 

“ Yes,” she said — “ if only some one will take this mare of 
mine to stable. She’s wet and lonely. All her friends have 
left her — to seek the Langton Road.” 

Again the older woman was aware of a breadth of sym- 
pathy, an instinctive care for their dumb fellows, that marked 
so many of these hill- folk. It seemed barbarous to her that at 
a time like this, when women’s hearts were breaking for their 


88 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

men, Nance should be thinking of her mare’s comfort and 
peace of mind. 

A step sounded across the courtyard. Both women glanced 
up sharply, and saw Giles, the bailiff, a ludicrous anger and 
worry in his face. 

“Well, Giles?” asked his mistress, with soft impatience. 
“Are you a shirker, too?” 

“ No, my lady. I was not reared that way. Some cursed 
fool — asking pardon for my plain speech — has stolen my 
horse. I’ll just have to o’ertake them on foot, I reckon — 
unless ” 

His glance rested on Nance’s mare, big and strong enough 
to carry him. 

“ But, Giles, we keep no horse-thieves at Windyhough,” 
said Lady Royd, in her gentle, purring voice. “ Where did 
you leave him? ” 

“ Tethered to the stable-door, my lady. He couldn’t have 
unslipped the bridle without human hands to help him. It 
was this way. I had to see Sir Jasper mounted, and Maister 
Maurice. They’re raither feckless-like, unless they’ve got 
Giles nigh handy to see that all goes well. Well, after they 
were up i’ saddle, I tried to get through the swarm o’ folk i’ 
the courtyard, and a man on foot has little chance. So I bided 
till they gat away, thinking I’d catch them up; and when 
they’d ridden a lile way down the road, I ran to th’ stable. 
Th’ stable-door was there all right, and th’ ring for tething, 
but blamed if my fiddle-headed horse warn’t missing. It was 
that way, my lady, take it or leave it — and maister will be sadly 
needing me.” 

He was business-like in all emergencies, and his glance wan- 
dered again, as if by chance, from Nance’s face to the mare’s 
bridle that she held. 

“ There’s not a horse in Lancashire just the equal of my 
chestnut,” he said dispassionately ; “ but I’d put up with an- 
other, if ’twere offered me.” 

Nance, bred on the soil, knew what this sturdy, six-foot fel- 


THE HORSE THEIF 


89 


low asked of her. It was hard to give up the one solace she 
had brought to Windyhough — her mare, who would take her 
long scampers up the pastures and the moor when she needed 
room about her. 

“ She could not carry you, Giles,” said the girl, answering 
the plain meaning behind his words. 

“ Ay, blithely, miss. But, then, you wouldn’t spare her, 
like.” 

There was a moment’s silence. Nance was asked to give up 
something for the Cause — something as dear to her as hedge- 
rows, and waving sterns of hounds, and a game fox ahead. 
Then she put the bridle into Giles’s hand. 

“ On second thoughts ” — she halted to stroke the mare’s 
neck — “ I think, Giles, she’ll carry you. Tell Sir Jasper that 
the women, too, are leal, though they’re compelled to stay at 
home.” 

Giles wasted little time in thanks. Business-like, even in 
this matter of running his neck into a halter, he sprang to the 
mare’s back. He would be sore before the day was out, be- 
cause the saddle was wringing wet by this time; but he was 
used to casual hardships. 

Lady Royd watched the bailiff ride quickly down the road, 
heard the last hoof-beats die away. “ You are odd, you folk 
up here,” she said, with a warmer note in her tired voice. 
“ You did not give up your mare lightly, Nance — and to Giles, 
of all men. Who stole his horse, think you ? ” 

Nance answered without knowing she had framed the 
thought. “ Rupert is missing, too,” she said, with an odd, 
wayward smile. “ I told you he had pluck.” 

Yet, after they had gone indoors, after she had changed her 
riding-gear, Nance sat in the guest-chamber upstairs, and 
could think only of Will Underwood. Her dreams of him had 
been so pleasant, so loyal ; she was not prepared to trample on 
them. She saw him giving her a lead on many a bygone hunt- 
ing-day — saw the eager face, and heard his low, persuasive 
voice. 


90 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Nance was steadfast, even to disproven trust. She caught 
hold of Sir Jasper’s challenge yesterday, when men had 
doubted Will. He would join them on the southward march. 
Surely he would, knowing how well she liked him. And the 
kerchief he had asked for — it must wait, until he came in his 
own time to claim it. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH 

Rupert stood in the little wood that bordered the Langton 
road, waiting for Sir Jasper’s company of horse to pass. It 
would have been chilling work for hardier folk. The rain 
soaked him to the skin ; the wind stabbed from behind, as the 
sly north-easter does. He had no prospect of joining his 
friends as yet ; his one hope was to follow them, like a culprit 
fearing detection, until they and he had ridden so far from 
Windyhough that they could not turn him back to eat his heart 
out among the women. 

Yet he was aglow with a sense of adventure. He was look- 
ing ahead, for the first time in his life, to the open road that 
he could share at last with braver men. The horse he had 
borrowed from Giles was tugging at the bridle. He checked 
it sharply, with a firmness that surprised the pair of them. He 
was conscious of a curious gaiety and strength. 

Far down the road at last he heard the clink of hoofs, then a 
sharp word of command, and afterwards the gaining tumult 
of horsemen trotting over sloppy ground. His horse began to 
whinny, to strain at the bridle, wondering what the lad was 
at. He quieted him as best he could, and the Loyal Meet that 
swept past below him had neither thought nor hearing for the 
uproar in the wood above. 

Rupert saw his father and Squire Demaine riding with set 
faces at the head of their motley gathering. Then, after all 
had passed and the road seemed clear, there came again the 
beat of hoofs from the far distance — the hoofs of one horse 
only, drumming feverishly along the road. And soon Giles, 
the bailiff, passed him at a sweltering gallop ; and Rupert saw 
that he was riding Nance’s mare. 

91 


92 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


The scholar laughed suddenly. Intent on his own busi- 
ness, he had not guessed until now that Giles would be troubled 
when he found his fiddle-headed horse stolen. He could pic- 
ture the bailiff’s face, could hear his broad and Doric speech, 
when he found himself without a mount. It was astonishing 
to Rupert that he could laugh at such a time, for he was young 
to the open road, and had yet to learn what a solace laughter 
is to hard-bitten men who fear to take big happenings over- 
seriously. 

He heard Giles gallop out of earshot. Then he led his horse 
through the wood and down into the highroad. There was no 
onlooker to smile at his clumsy horsemanship, and for that 
reason he mounted lightly and handled the reins with easy* 
firmness ; and his horse, doubtful until now, found confidence 
in this new rider. 

The sun was well up, but it had no warmth. Its watery 
light served only to make plainer the cold, sleety hills, the 
drab-coloured slush of the trampled highway. Only a fool, 
surely — a fool with some instinct for the forlorn hope — could 
have woven romance about this scene of desolation. Yet 
Rupert’s courage was high, his horse was going blithely under 
him. He was picturing the crowd of wiser men whom he had 
watched ride by — the gentry, the thick-thewed yeomen whose 
faces were known to him from childhood, the jolly farmers 
who had taken their fences on more cheery hunting days than 
this. Someting stirred at the lad’s heart as he galloped in 
pursuit — some reaching back to the olden days, some sense of 
forward, eager hope. So had the men of Craven, just over 
the Yorkshire border, ridden up to Flodden generations since 
— ridden from the plough and hunting-field to a battle that 
gave them once for all their place in song and story. 

And he, the Scholar, was part, it seemed, of this later riding 
out that promised to bring new fame to Lancashire. All was 
confused to him as he urged Giles’s fiddle-headed nag to fresh 
endeavour. Old tales of warfare, passed on from mouth to 


THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH 


93 


mouth along the generations, were mingled with this modern 
battle that was in the making London way; voices from the 
elder days stole down and whispered to him from the windy, 
driven moors that had been his playmates. As if some mir- 
acle had waited for him at the crossways of the Rising, where 
many had chosen the road of doubt and some few the track 
of faith, Rupert knew himself the heir at last — the heir his 
father had needed all these years. 

His seat in the saddle was one that any knowledgable horse- 
man might praise. The bailiff’s chestnut was galloping with 
a speed that had taken fire from the rider’s need to catch up 
the Loyal Meet. Rupert was so sure of himself, so sanguine. 
He had let his friends ride forward without him because he 
had not known how to tell them that at heart he was no fool ; 
and now, when he overtook them, they would understand at 
last. 

They pounded over a straight, level stretch of road just 
between Conie Cliff Wood and the little farm at the top of 
Water Ghyll, and Rupert saw Bailiff Giles half a mile in front 
of him. Giles was doing his best to ruin Nance’s mare for life 
in his effort to catch up the hunt ; and so Rupert, in the man’s 
way, must needs ask more of his own horse, too, than need de- 
manded. He would catch up the bailiff, he told himself, 
would race past him, would turn in saddle with a careless 
shout that Giles would be late for the Meet unless he stirred 
himself. His mood was the more boyish because until he 
fought with his brother on the moors a while since he had not 
tasted real freedom. 

It was not his fault, nor his horse’s, that they came heed- 
lessly to a corner of the road where it dipped down a greasy, 
curving slope. In the minds of both there was the need for 
haste, and they were riding straight, the two of them. His 
fiddle-headed beast slipped at the turning of the corner, reeled 
half across the road in his effort to recover, and threw his 
rider. When Rupert next awoke to knowledge of what was 


94 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


going forward he found himself alone. Far down the road 
he could hear the rattle of his horse as it galloped madly 
after its brethren that carried Sir Jasper’s company. 

Sir Jasper, meanwhile, had got to Langton High Street, had 
drawn his men up on either side of the road. Their horses 
were muddied to the girths. The riders were wet to the skin, 
splashed and unheroic. Yet from the crowd that had gath- 
ered from the rookeries and the by-streets of the town — a 
crowd not any way disposed to reverence the call of a Stuart 
to his loyal friends — a murmur of applause went up. They 
had looked for dainty gentlemen, playing at heroics while the 
poor ground at the mill named “ daily bread.” They saw in- 
stead a company of horse whose members were not insolent, 
or gay, or free from weariness. They saw working farmers, 
known to them by sight, who were not accounted fools on 
market-days. Some glimmering of intelligence came to these 
townsfolk who led bitter lives among the by-streets. There 
must be “ some queer mak’ o’ sense about it,” they grumbled 
one to another, as they saw that the Loyal Meet was wet to the 
skin, and grave and resolute. It was the like resolution — 
dumb, and without help from loyalty to a high Cause — that 
had kept many of them faithful to their wives, their children, 
their houses in the back alleys of Langton Town. 

The rain ceased for a while, and the sun came struggling 
through a press of clouds. And up through the middle of the 
street, between the two lines of horsemen and the chattering 
crowd behind, a single figure walked. He was big in length 
and beam, and he moved as if he owned the lives of men ; and 
the shrill wind blew his cassock round him. 

Sir Jasper moved his horse into the middle of the street, 
stooped, and grasped the vicar’s hand. 

“ We’re well met, I think,” he said. “ What’s your errand, 
Vicar? ” 

“ Oh, just to ring the church bells. My ringer is a George’s 
man — so’s my sexton ; and I said to both of them, in a plain 
parson’s way, that I’d need shriving if Langton, one way or 


THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH 


95 


t’other, didn’t ring a Stuart through the town. I can handle 
one bell, if not the whole team of six.” 

Sir Jasper laughed. So did his friends. So did the rabble 
looking on. 

“ It’s well we’re here to guard you,” said Sir Jasper, 
glancing at the crowd, whose aspect did not promise well for 
church bells and such temperate plain-song. 

“ By your leave, no,” the Vicar answered with a jolly laugh. 
“ I know these folk o’ Langton. They should know me, too, 
by now, seeing how often I’ve whipped ’em from the pulpit — 
and at other times — yes, at other times, maybe.” 

The Vicar, grey with endeavour and constancy to his trust, 
was vastly like Rupert, riding hard in quest of a boy’s first 
adventure. He stood to his full height, and nodded right and 
left to the townsmen who were pressing already between , the 
flanks of Stuart horses. 

“ Men o’ Langton,” he said, his voice deep, cheery, resonant, 
“ Sir Jasper says I need horsemen to guard me in my own 
town. Give him your answer.” 

The loyal horse, indeed, were anxious for the Vicar’s safety, 
seeing this rabble swarm into the middle of the High Street, 
through the double line of riders that had kept them back 
till now. They were riding forward already, but the parson 
waved them back. 

The Vicar stood now in the thick of a roaring crowd that 
had him at its mercy. Sir Jasper, who loved a leal man, 
tried to get his horse a little nearer, but could not without 
riding down defenceless folk; and, while he and his friends 
were in grave anxiety and doubt, a sudden hum of laughter 
came from the jostling crowd. 

“ Shoulder him, lads ! ” cried one burly fellow. 

Five other stalwarts took up the cry, and the Vicar, protest- 
ing with great cheeriness, was lifted shoulder high. And 
gradually it grew clear to the Loyal Meet that the parson, as 
he had boasted, was safe — nay, was beloved — among these 
working- folk of Langton. 


96 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


They moved up the street, followed by the rabble, and the 
two lines of the Loyal Meet were facing each other once more 
across the emptying roadway. And by and by, from the old 
church on the hill, a furious peal rang out. The Vicar, who 
was a keen horseman himself, had named his bells “ a team 
of six ” ; and never in its history, perhaps, had the team been 
driven with such recklessness. The parson held one rope — 
one rein, as he preferred to call it — and knew how to handle 
it. But his five allies had only goodwill to prompt them in 
their attempt to ring a peal. 

There was noise enough, to be sure ; and across the uproar 
another music sounded — music less full-bodied, but piercing, 
urgent, not to be denied. 

Sir Jasper lifted his head, as a good hound does when he 
hears the horn. “ Gentlemen,” he said, “ the pipes, the blessed 
pipes! D’ye hear them? The Prince is near.” 

They scarcely heard the jangling bells. Keen, swift, tri- 
umphant, the sweetest music in the world came louder and 
louder round the bend of Langton Street. The riders could 
not sit still in saddle, but were drumming lightly with their 
feet, as if their stirrups were a dancing-floor. Their horses 
fidgeted and neighed. 

And then Prince Charles Edward came into Langton, and 
these gentry of the Loyal Meet forgot how desolate and cold 
the dawn had been. Some of them had waited thirty years 
for this one moment; others, the youngsters and the middle- 
aged, had been reared on legends of that unhappy ’15 Rising 
which had not chilled the faith of Lancashire. And all seemed 
worth while now, here in the sunlit street, that was wet and 
glistening with the late persistent rain. 

The Prince rode alone, his officers a few yards in the rear, 
and behind them the strange army, .made up of Scottish gentry, 
of Highlanders in kilts, of plain Lowland farmers armed with 
rusty swords, with scythe-blades fixed on six-foot poles, with 
any weapon that good luck had given to their hands. 

It was not this motley crew that Sir Jasper saw, nor any of 


THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH 


97 


his company. It was not Lord Murray, a commanding figure 
at another time; not Lochiel, lean and debonair and princely, 
though both rode close behind the Prince. 

The Prince himself drew all men’s eyes. His clothes, his 
Highland bonnet, had suffered from the muddy wet ; the bright 
hair, that had pleased ladies up in Edinburgh not long ago 
when he danced at Holyrood, was clotted by the rain. He 
stood plainly on his record as a man, without any of the 
fripperies to which women give importance. 

And the record was graven on his tired, eager face. Forced 
marches had told on him. His sleepless care for the least 
among his followers had told on him. He knew that Marshal 
Wade was hurrying from Northumberland to overtake him, 
that he was riding through a country worse than hostile — a 
country indifferent for the most part, whose men were reck- 
oning up the chances either way, and choosing as prudence, 
not the heart, dictated. Yet behind him was some unswerv- 
ing purpose; and, because he had no doubt of his own faith, 
he seemed to bring a light from the farther hills into this 
muddy street of Langton. ' 

He drew rein, and those behind him pulled up sharply. 
The pipes ceased playing, and it seemed as if a healthy, nip- 
ping wind had ceased to blow from these sleet-topped hills of 
Lancashire. The Loyal Meet rose in their stirrups, and their 
uproar drowned the Vicar’s bells. They were men applaud- 
ing a stronger man, and the pipes themselves could find no 
better music. 

Sir Jasper rode forward with bared head, and the Prince, 
doffing his bonnet in return, reached out a capable, firm hand. 

“ Leal and punctual, sir. I give you greeting,” he said. 

And the tears, do as he would, were in Sir Jasper’s eyes. 
This man with the fair, disordered hair and the face that 
laughed its weariness away, was kingly, resolute, instinct with 
the larger air that comes of long apprenticeship to royalty. He 
and the Loyal Meet and all the ragged army might be on 
their way to execution before the week was out ; but the Prince 


98 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


was following this day’s business without fear of the morrow, 
as creed and training taught him. 

“ All Langton gives your Highness greeting,” answered Sir 
Jasper, faltering a little because his feelings were so stirred. 
“ Our bells are ringing you into your kingdom.” 

The Prince glanced keenly at him, at the faces of the 
Loyal Meet. He was quick of intuition, and saw, for the first 
time since crossing the Border, that light of zeal, of courage to 
the death, which he had hoped to find in England. 

“ We’re something wet and hungry,” he said, with the quiet 
laugh that had less mirth than sadness in it. “ You hearten 
us, I think. My father, as I was setting sail, bade me re- 
member that Lancashire was always the county of fair women 
and clean faith.” 

Lord Murray was tired and wet, like the rest of the army ; 
and, to add to his evil plight, he was consumed by the jealousy 
and self-importance that were his besetting luxuries. “ The 
church bells, your Highness,” he said, glancing up the street — 
“ I trust it’s no ill omen that they ring so desperately out of 
tune.” 

Sir Jasper saw the Prince move impatiently in saddle, saw 
him struggle with some irritation that was not of yesterday. 
And he felt, rather than framed the clear thought, that there 
were hot-and-cold folk among the Scots, as here in Lancashire. 

Then the Prince’s face cleared. “ My lord Murray,” he said 
suavely, “ all bells ring in tune when loyal hands are at the 
ropes. Your ear, I think, is not trained to harmony. And 
now gentlemen, what food is in your town? Enough to give 
a mouthful to us all? Good! We can spare an hour in 
Langton, and after that we must be jogging forward.” 

The hour was one of surprise to Sir Jasper and his friends. 
Here was an army strong enough to raid the town, to break 
into the taverns, to commit licence and excess ; yet there was 
no licence, nor thought of it. A Stuart, his fair hair mud- 
died and unkempt, had charge of this march south ; and his will 
was paramount, because his army loved him. No fear, no 


THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH 99 

usual soldier’s obedience to discipline, could have hindered 
these Scots from rapine when they found the town’s resources 
scanty for their hunger ; but the fearlessness, the comradeship 
of their leader had put honour, sharp as a sword, between temp- 
tation and themselves. 

“ We must foot our bill here, Sir Jasper,” said the Prince 
as they were preparing to ride out again. 

“ Oh, that can wait ” 

“ No, by your leave! Theft is the trade of men who steal 
thrones. I will not have it said that any town in England 
was poorer because a Stuart came that way. .Lochiel, you 
carry our royal purse,” he broke off, with a quick, impulsive 
laugh. “ Peep into it and see how much is left.” 

“ Enough to pay our score, your Highness.” 

“ Then we’re rich, Lochiel ! We may be poor to-morrow, 
but to-day we’re rich enough to pay our debts.” 

A half-hour later they rode out into the wintry, ill-found 
roads, into the open country, wet and desolate, that was 
guarded by sleet-covered uplands. And Sir Jasper, who had 
the countryman’s superstitious outlook on the weather, re- 
membered Lord Murray, his cold, easy smile, as he said that 
the Langton bells were ringing out of tune. 

A mile south from Langton, as Giles, the bailiff at Windy- 
hough, was riding not far behind the gentry — having at heart 
the need to keep his master well in sight — a fiddle-headed horse 
came blundering down the road. The beast was creamed with 
foam, and he scattered the footmen right and left as he made 
forward. Only when he reached Giles’s side he halted, stood 
shivering with the recoil from his own wild gallop, and pushed 
his nose up against the bailiff’s bridle-hand. And Giles, with 
scant respect for the mare that had carried him so far, slipped 
from the saddle, and fussed about the truant as if he were a 
prodigal returned. Giles did not heed that he was holding up 
all the men behind, that the gentlemen in front had drawn 
rein, aware of some disturbance in the rear, and that the Prince 
himself was asking what the trouble was. 


100 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Where hast been, old lad ? I thought thee lost/’ the bail- 
iff was muttering, with all a countryman’s disregard of bigger 
issues when his heart was touched. And the horse could not 
tell him that, after throwing Rupert, he had lost sight of 
the master he pursued and had wasted time in seeking him 
down casual by-roads. “ Ye’ve had an ill rider, by the look o’ 
thee. Ye threw him, likely? Well, serve him right — serve 
him varry right.” 

Giles, with a slowness that suggested he had all the time in 
the world to spare, got to the back of the fiddle-headed chest- 
nut, and felt at home again. 

“What mun I do wi’ this file nag?” he asked dispassion- 
ately, still holding the reins of Nance’s borrowed mare. 

Sir Jasper, seeing that his bailiff was the cause of this un- 
expected check, could not keep back his laughter. 

“ What is the pleasantry? ” asked the Prince. “ Tell it me. 
I think we need a jest or two, if we’re to get safely over these 
evil roads of yours.” 

“ Oh, it is naught, your Highness — naught at all, unless you 
know Giles as I do. He thinks more of that fiddle-headed 
horse of his than of the pick amongst our Lancashire hunters 
— and he’s holding up our whole advance.” 

“What mun I do wi’ the mare?” repeated Giles, looking 
round him with a large impassiveness. “ I can’t take a led 
mare to Lunnon and do my share o’ fighting by the way. It 
stands to reason I mun have one hand free.” 

The Prince, whose instinct for the humour of the road had 
put heart into his army since the forced march began, looked 
quietly for a moment at Giles’s face. Its simplicity, masking 
a courage hard as bog-oak, appealed to him. “ By your 
leave, Sir Jasper,” he said, “ my horse will scarcely last the 
day out — these roads have punished him. I shall be glad of 
the mare, if you will lend her to me.” 

When the march was moving forward again, the Prince in 
the grey mare’s saddle, Lord Murray turned to an intimate 
who rode beside him. “ His Highness forgets old saws,” he 


THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH 


101 


murmured, with the insolent assurance that attaches to the 
narrow-minded “ ‘ Never change horses when crossing a 
stream’ — surely all prudent Scotsmen know the superstition.” 

But Sir Jasper, riding close beside the Prince, did not hear 
him. His heart, in its own way, was simple as Giles’s, and he 
was full of pride. “ I wish my god-daughter could know,” he 
said. 

“ Your god-daughter ? ” echoed the other. 

“ Yes — Nance Demaine. It is her mare you’ve borrowed, 
sir — and I should know, seeing I gave it her — though for the 
life of me I can’t guess how she chanced to join the Rising.” 

The Prince smiled as his glance met Sir Jasper’s, “ There’s 
no chance about this Rising,” he said pleasantly, as if he 
talked of the weather or the crops. “ We’re going to the 
Throne, my friend, or to the death ; but, either way, there’s no 
chance about it — and no regrets, I think.” 

Sir Jasper felt again that sharp, insistent pity which had 
come to him at sight of the yellow-haired laddie who had left 
women’s hearts aching up across the border. In this wild 
campaign it seemed that he had met a friend. And he spoke, 
as comrades do, disdaining ceremony. 

“ That is the faith I hold,” he said, with an odd gentleness 
that seemed to have the strength of the moors behind it. 
“ Comrades are few on the road o’ life, your Highness.” 

The Prince glanced at him, as he had glanced at Giles not 
long ago — shrewdly, with mother-wit and understanding. 
“ They’re few,” he said — “ and priceless. I would God, sir, 
that you’d infect my lord Murray with something of your 
likeable, warm spirit.” 

And Sir Jasper sighed, as he looked far down the road to 
London, and reckoned up the leagues of hardship they must 
traverse. Their task was perilous enough for men united in 
common zeal ; dissension from within, of which he had al- 
ready heard more hints than one, was a more dangerous enemy 
than Marshal Wade and all his army of pursuit. 

Yet Sir Jasper had relief in action, in the need to meet 


102 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


every workaday happening of the march. With his son, 
thrown on the Langton Road, and listening to the hoof-beats 
of the runaway horse as he went to join the Rising, the case 
was otherwise. His one comrade had deserted him. He was 
here on the empty road, with failure for his sole companion. 
His first impulse was the horse’s — to run fast and hard, in 
the hope of overtaking his own kind. He ran forward dizzily, 
tripped over a stone that some wagoner had used to check his 
wheel while he rested his team, got up again, and felt a sharp, 
throbbing pain in his right ankle. He tried to plod on, for all 
that, his face set London way — failed, and sat down by the 
wet roadside. And the wheels of circumstance passed over 
him, numbing his faith in God. 

They all but crushed him. He had dreamed of Prince 
Charles Edward ; had learned at last to sit a horse, because he 
needed to follow where high enterprise was in the doing; had 
known the luxury of a gallop in pursuit of men who had 
thought him short of initiative. 

And now he was the Scholar again. His horse had failed 
him. His own feet had played him false. He sat there, wet 
and homeless, and from the cloudy hills a smooth, contemptuous 
voice came whispering at his ear. Best be done with a life 
that had served him; ill. He was a hindrance to himself, to 
his friends. Best creep down to the pool at the road-foot ; he 
had bathed there often in summer and knew its depth. Best 
end it all — the shame, the laughter of strong mien, the con- 
stant misadventure that met him by the way. He was weak 
and accursed. None would miss him if he went to sleep. 

“ No,” he said deliberately, as if answering an enemy in 
human shape, “ a Royd could not do it.” 

Sir Jasper’s view of his first-born was finding confirmation. 
The soul of the lad had been tempered to a nicety, and the 
bodily pain scarce troubled him, as he set his face away from 
London and the Prince, and limped toward home. Now and 
then he was forced to rest, because sickness would not let him 
see the road ahead; but always he got up again. Self-blame 


THE PRINCE COMES SOUTH 


103 


had grown to be a mischievous habit with him, and he was 
ashamed now that he had deserted his allotted post. True, his 
father, in bidding himi guard Windyhough, had practised a 
tender fraud on him ; but he had given his word, and had been 
false to it when the first haphazard temptation met him by the 
way. It had been so easy to steal Giles’s horse, so easy to 
scamper off along the road of glamour, so bitter-hard to stay 
among the women. 

The lad was over-strained and heartsick, ready to make 
molehills into mountains ; yet his shame was bottomed on 
sound instinct. He came of a soldier-stock, and in the tissues 
of him was interwoven this contempt for the sentry who for- 
sook his post. No danger threatened Windyhough. He was 
returning to a duty which, in itself, was idle; but he had 
pledged his word. 

He struggled forward. The road to London was not for 
him; but at least he could keep faith with the father who 
was riding now, no doubt, beside the Prince. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE HEIR RETURNS 

At Windyhough, Martha the dairymaid was restless, like all 
the women left about the house. She could not settle to her 
work, though it was churning-day, and good cream was likely 
to be wasted. Martha at five-and-thirty, had not found a 
mate, yet she would have made a good wife to any man; 
strong, supple, with wind and roses in her cheeks, she was born 
to matronhood; though, by some blindness that had hindered 
the farmer-folk about her when she crossed their path, she 
had not found her road in life. And, in her quiet, practical 
way, she knew that the shadows were beginning to lengthen 
down her road, that she might very well go on dairying, eat- 
ing, sleeping, till they buried her in the churchyard of St. 
John’s — no more, no less. 

The prospect had never shown so cheerless as it did just 
now. The men, as their habit was, had all the luck ; they had 
gone off on horseback, pretending that some cause or other 
took them into open country. For her part, she was tired of 
being left behind. 

Lady Royd was indoors. The housekeeper was not about 
to keep the maids attentive to routine. All was silent and 
lack-lustre; and Martha went down the road till she reached 
the gate at its foot — the gate that stood open after letting the 
Loyal Meet ride through. 

“ It’s queer and lonesome, when all’s said,” she thought, 
swinging gently on the gate. “ Men are bothersome cattle — 
full o’ tempers and contrariness — but, dear heart, I miss their 
foolishness.” 

She thought the matter out for lack of better occupation, 
but came to no conclusion. In front of her, as she sat on the 

104 


THE HEIR RETURNS 


105 


top bar of the gate, she could see the muddied hoof-tracks that 
marked the riding-out. Her own father, her two brothers, 
were among Sir Jasper’s company; they were thrifty, com- 
mon-sense folk, like herself, and she wondered if there was 
something practical, after all, in this business that had left 
Windyhough so empty and so silent. 

A man’s figure came hobbling up the road — a broad, well- 
timbered figure enough, but bent about the legs and shoulders. 
It was Simon Foster, coming in tired out from roaming up 
and down the pastures. Though scarce turned fifty, he had 
been out with the ’15 Rising, thirty years ago; but rheumatism 
had rusted his joints before their time, and to-day, because he 
was not fit to ride with haler men, he had kept away from the 
Meet at Windyhough, for he dared not trust himself to stand 
an onlooker at this new Rising. 

Martha got down from the gate, and opened it with a mock 
curtsey. “ I’m pleased to see a man, Simon,” she said, moved 
by some wintry coquetry. “ I began to fancy, like, we were 
all women here at Windyhough.” 

“ So we are,” he growled — “ but I’d set ye in your places, 
that I would, if nobbut I could oil my joints.” 

“ You’ve come home in a nice temper, Simon.” 

“ Ay, lass, and I’ll keep it, till I know whether Sir Jasper 
has set a crown on the right head. It isn’t easy, biding here 
wi’ Lancashire weather ” 

“ And Lancashire witches,” put in Martha, with sly provoca- 
tion. 

Simon was tired, and had nothing especial to do; so he 
stayed awhile, telling himself that a maid’s blandishments, 
though daft and idle, were one way of passing the time. “ Oh, 
ay, you’re snod enough, Martha,” lie said, rubbing his lean 
chin. “ I’ve seen few in my time to better ye.” 

“ Now, Simon ! And they say your tongue is rough as an 
old file. For my part, I alius knew ye could be kind and 
easy, if ye’d a mind to.” 

“ I war a bit of a devil once, may be,” he admitted, with a 


106 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


slow, pleasant laugh, as if he praised himself unduly for past 
escapades. “ Ay, a bit of a devil, Martha. I’ll own to it. 
But rheumatiz has taught me sense since them days.” 

“ Sense is as you take it, Simon. Ye might shoot wider o’ 
the mark than to peep at a lass’s een, just whiles, like.” 

Simon Foster, feeling that their talk grew warmer than 
mere pleasantry demanded, glanced away from the topic. “ I 
saw summat on my way down fro’ the moor,” he said, dry and 
matter-of-fact once more. “ There’s no accounting for it, but 
I saw it with my two eyes, and I’m puzzled. You wouldn’t 
call me less than sober, Martha ? ” 

“ No,” she put in dryly. “ Sobriety was alius a little bit of 
a failing wi’ ye, Simon. There’s times to be sober, I alius 
did say — and times to be playful, as the kitten said to the 
tabby-cat.” 

“ Well, I happened to look into th’ sky, just as I’d getten 
past Timothy Wantless’s barn, and I saw summat,” went on 
Simon stolidly. 

“ So ye went star-gazing ? Shame on ye ! Only lads i’ 
their courting time go star-gazing.” 

“ Maybe. But it was daylight, as it happened, and I wasn’t 
thinking o’ courtship — not just then,” he added guardedly. 
“ I war thinking of an old mare I meant to sell Timothy Want- 
less to-morn for twice as much as she’s worth. She wasn’t 
fit to carry one o’ Sir Jasper’s men, and she’ll ruin him i’ 
corn afore he comes back fro’ Lunnon, and it stands to reason 
she mun be sold for what she’ll fetch. And I war scratching 
my head, like, wondering how I’d get round Timothy — he’s 
stiff and snappy at a bargain — when I happened to look up — 
and there war men on horseback, fair i’ th’ middle o’ the sky, 
riding all as it might have been a hunting day.” 

“ Good sakes ! I’ll go skerry to my bed, Simon.” 

“ It war queer, I own ; and, if they’d been on safe ground, 
I’d have run in to see what ’twas all about; but, seeing they 
were up above, I watched ’em a while, and then I left ’em to 
it.” 


THE HEIR RETURNS 


107 

Martha’s brief mood of superstition passed. “ Simon, 
you’re as sober as a man that’s never had th’ chance to step into 
an ale-house, and you’re over old to be courting-daft ” 

“ Not so old, my lass,” he broke in, with the heat she had 
tempted from him. “ I should know, at my age, how to court 
a woman.” 

“ I believe you do, Simon — if nobbut you’d try your hand, 
like.” 

“ Lads go daft about ye women — think ye’re all made up 
of buttercups and kiss-me-quicks. But I know different.” 

“ Oh, ay ? ” asked Martha gently. “ What d’ye know, 
Simon ? ” 

“ Naught so much, lass — only that women are like nettles. 
Handle ’em tenderly, and they’ll gi’e ye a rash ye can feel for 
a week o’ days. But grasp ’em — and they’re soft as let- 
tuces.” 

“ I alius did say older men had more sense than lads. 
You’re right, Simon. Grasp us ” 

“ Ay, another day,” said Simon — bluntly, and with a hint of 
fear. “ For my part, I’m too full o’ Sir Jasper’s business to 
heed any sort o’ moonshine.” 

He was half up the road already, but she enticed him back. 

“These men you saw riding in the sky, Simon? You’ve 
frightened me — and I was alius feared o’ ghosties.” 

Simon, though he would not admit it, was troubled by the 
picture he had seen, up yonder on the moors ; and, after the 
human fashion, he was willing to share his trouble with 
another. 

“ Well, I saw ’em — no denying that,” he said, returning 
slowly. “ There were two riding at the front — like as it might 
have been Sir Jasper and Squire Demaine — and a lot o’ horse- 
men scampering after. There was thick haze all across the 
sky, and I saw ’em like a picture in a printed book. I’d have 
thought less about it, Martha, if it hadn’t been that Maister 
Rupert — the day, ye mind, he came home from fighting his 
brother — told me how, that varry morn, he’d seen the like pic- 


108 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


ture up above his head — just horsemen, he said, galloping up 
and down where honest sky should be. ,, 

“ Ben o’ the stables war talking of it awhile since, now I 
call to mind. One here and there had seen the same sort 
o’ picture, he said; but I paid no heed. Ben was alius light 
and feather-brained — not steady, Simon, like ye.” 

Her glance was tender, frank, dismaying; and Simon an- 
swered it with a slow', foolish smile. “ Steady is as steady 
does. For my part — what wi’ rheumatiz, and seeing other 
folk get all the fighting, and me left at home — ye could mak 
a bit of a file fool o’ me, Martha, I do believe. Ye’re so bon- 
nie, like ” 

“ No harm i’ that, is there ? ” 

“ Well, not just what ye’d call harm — not exactly harm — but 
my day’s over, lass.” 

“ That’s what the rooster said when he war moulting, 
Simon ; but he lived to crow: another day.” 

Simon had learned from the far-off days of soldiering, that 
there are times when the bravest are counselled to retreat in 
good order. “ Well, I’m i’ the moult just now,” he said im- 
passively, “ and it’s time I gat into th’ house, now they’re made 
me some queer sort of indoor servant. Lady Royd will be 
wanting this and that — ye know her pretty-prat way, needing 
fifty things i’ a minute.” 

“ But, Simon ” 

He trudged steadily forward, not turning his head ; and 
Martha sighed as she climbed the gate again and began to 
rock gently to and fro. “ Men are kittlesome cattle,” she said 
discontentedly. 

Round the bend of the road below she heard the sound of 
footsteps — halting steps that now and then ceased for a while. 
She forgot Simon, forgot her peevishness, as she saw the 
figure that came up the road towards her. All the mother- 
hood that was strong and eager in this lass came to the front 
as she saw Rupert, the heir — Rupert, who had been missing 
since the dawn — come home in this derelict, queer fashion. 


THE HEIR RETURNS 


109 


She ran out and put an arm about him. He was not the heir 
now, the master left in charge of Windyhough ; he was the lad 
whose cries she had helped to still, long since in nursery days. 

“ Why, sir, ye’re i’ th’ wars, and proper. You’re limping 
sorely.” 

Rupert steadied himself against her arm for a moment, then 
put her away and went forward. “ Nay, I’m out of the wars, 
Martha,” he said, with the rare smile that made friends among 
those who chanced to see it. “ I’m out of the wars — and 
that’s my trouble.” 

“ But you’re limping-- ” 

“ Yes,” he snapped, with sudden loss of temper. “ I’m limp- 
ing, Martha — since my birth. That’s no news to me.” 

He went in at the door of Windyhough, and in the hall 
encountered Lady Royd. The light was dim here, and she did 
not see his weariness. 

“Where have you been, Rupert?” she asked peevishly. 

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “ I’ve been up the 
moors, mother,” he said, “ planning how best to defend Windy- 
hough if the attack should come.” He was here to take up 
the post allotted to him, and to his last ebb of strength he 
meant to be debonair and cheery, as his father would have 
been under like hardship. “ There are so few men left here, 
and all of us are either old, or — or useless,” he added, with 
his whimsical, quiet smile. 

Lady Royd, oppressed by loneliness, swept out of her self- 
love by the storm of this Loyal Meet that had left her in its 
wake, stood near to the life which is known to workaday folk 
— the life made up of sleet and a little sun, of work and the 
need for faith and courage. She looked at her boy, trying to 
read his face in the dull, uncertain light; and her heart ached 
for him. 

“ But, Rupert,” she said by and by, “ there’s no fear of at- 
tack. The march has gone south — the fighting will be there, 
not here — you overheard your father say as much.” 

He winced, remembering the eagerness with which he had 


110 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


followed Sir Jasper round the house, the pride he had felt 
in noting each loophole, the muskets, and the piles of shot en- 
trusted to his care. He recalled, with minute and pitiful 
exactness, how afterwards he had been an unwilling listener 
while his father said it had been all a fairy-tale to lull his 
elder-born to sleep. 

“ My father said it was child’s-play,’' he answered quietly. 
“ Yes, I’m not likely to forget just what he said — and what 
he left unsaid. But, mother, the storm might blow this way 
again, and I’m here to guard you, as I promised.” 

The day was no easy one for Rupert, accustomed from child- 
hood to find himself in the rear of action. Yet it was harder 
to Lady Royd, who had known little discipline till now, who 
looked at this son who was counted scholarly, and, with eyes 
accustomed to the dim light of the hall, saw at last the stub- 
born manhood in his face. 

“ I did not guess,” she said, her voice gentle, wondering, 
submissive — “ Rupert, I did not guess till now why your 
father was always so full of trust in you.” 

His eyes brightened. He had expected a colder welcome 
from this pretty, sharp-tongued mother. It seemed, after all, 
he had done well to return to his post at Windyhough. His 
thoughts ran forward, like a pack in full cry. The battle 
might shift north again — there might be some hot skirmish in 
the open, or the need to protect fugitives at Windyhough — or 
twenty pleasant happenings that would give him escape from 
idle sentry-duty here. Rupert was at his dreams again. An 
hour since he had dragged himself along the road, sick at 
heart, sick of body, disillusioned altogether; and now he was 
eager with forward hope because Lady Royd, from the pain 
of her own trouble, had found one swift word of encourage- 
ment. Encouragement had been rare in the lad’s life, and he 
found it a fine stimulant — too fine a one for his present needs. 
He moved quickly forward. His damaged foot bent under 
him, and for a moment the pain made him wince. 

“ It is nothing, mother,” he said, dropping on to the settle 


THE HEIR RETURNS 


111 


and looking up with the quiet smile that haunted her. “ I’m 
tired and wet — wet through to the heart, I think— let me get 
up and help you.” 

She did not know what to do with this son, who was grow- 
ing dearer to her each moment. Shut off from real life too 
long, she had no skill such as workaday mothers would have 
learned by now, and she called shrilly for the servants. 

A big man, bent in the body, made hisi way forward pres- 
ently through the women, pushing them aside as if he picked 
his way through useless lumber. It was Simon Foster, who 
had grown used, in the far-off ’15 Rising, to the handling of 
wounded men. 

“ A baddish sprain — no more, no less,” he growled, after 
he had taken off boot and stocking and looked at the swollen 
ankle. 

“ Oh, the poor lad ! ” cried Lady Royd, fidgety and useless. 
“ Go, one of you, for the surgeon ” 

“ There’s no need, my lady,” broke in Simon Foster. He 
had forgotten the manners of a trained servant, and was back 
again in the happy days when he had carried a pike for the 
Cause and did not know it lost. “ I’ve mended worse mat- 
ters than this in my time. You, Martha, get bandages. 
They’re somewhere handy — we brought plenty in at haytime, 
along with the powder-kegs.” 

Lady Royd did not rebuke him. Martha, who not long 
since had tempted him to folly, went off submissively to do 
his bidding. It seemed natural to these women that a man 
should be in command — a man who knew his mind and did 
not turn aside. 

“ There,” said Simon, after he had strapped the ankle. “ It 
will bother ye a while, master, but there’s a lot o’ time for 
rest these days at Windyhough. Let me gi’e ye an arm up the 
stair. Ye’d best get to bed, I reckon.” 

Nance Demaine had kept to her room this morning. They 
had brought her to Windyhough, had taken her mare, had left 
her derelict in a house that harboured only memories of past 


112 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


deeds. The active men were gone ; the mettled horses were 
gone ; she was bidden to keep within four walls, and wait, and 
pray. And she wished neither to pray nor to be stifled by 
four house-walls; she longed to be out in the open country, 
following the open road that had led to her heart’s desire. 
Tired of her own thoughts at last, she went out on to the land- 
ing, with a restless sense that duty was calling her below- 
stairs ; but she got no farther than the window that looked on 
a stormy sweep of moorland. 

Nance was in a bitter mood, as she sat in the window-seat 
and watched the white, lifeless hills, the sodden fields. Squire 
Demaine had trained her to love of galloping and loyalty, had 
taught her that England’s one, prim need was to see a Stuart 
on the throne again; and now, when deeds were asked of 
men and women both, he had left her here, to weave sam- 
plers, or to help Lady Royd brew simples in the stillroom, 
while they waited for their men to come home from the 
slaying. 

There was Will Underwood, too. With the obstinacy that 
attaches to a girl’s first love, she was warm in defence of him 
against the men who had liked him — some few of them — but 
had never trusted him,. He had not come to claim her ker- 
chief. Well, he would claim it another day; he had his own 
reasons, doubtless, for joining the Meet farther south. Some 
urgent message had reached him' — from the Prince himself, 
may be — bidding him ride out on an errand of especial dan- 
ger. No surmise was too wild to find acceptance. He was 
so strong, so graceful and well-favoured; he sat his horse so 
well, courted risks which prudent riders declined. It was 
fitting that he should be chosen for some post demanding 
gaiety, a firm seat in saddle, and reckless courage. 

Nance, for all the sleety outlook, was seeing this Rising again 
as a warm, impulsive drama. She bad watched Sir Jasper 
and her father ride out, had been chilled by their simple 
gravity ; but she had forgotten the lesson already, in her girl’s 
need for the alluring and the picturesque. This love of hers 


THE HEIR RETURNS 


1 IS 


for Underwood was an answer to the like need. At all haz- 
ards she must have warmth and colour, to feed her young, 
impulsive dreams of a world built in the midst of fairyland. 
She could not know, just yet, that the true warmth, the true, 
vivid colours come to those who, not concerned with the 
fairyland of make-believe, ride leal and trusty through the 
wind that stings their faces, over the sloppy, ill-found roads 
that spatter them with mud. 

She was desolate, this child who sat in the window-seat and 
constructed all afresh the picture of her hero-lover. She was 
weaving one of the samplers she despised, after all — not with 
wool and canvas, but in fancy’s loom. Obstinate in her de- 
mand for vivid drama, she was following Will Underwood 
already on this errand that the Prince had entrusted to his 
care. She saw him riding through the dangerous night roads, 
and prayed for his safety, at each corner of a highway peopled 
with assassins. She saw him galloping recklessly in open day- 
light, meeting odds laughable in their overwhelming number, 
killing his men, not singly but by scores, as he rode on, un- 
touched, and gay, and loyal to his trust. It is so that young 
love is apt to make its idol a knight miraculous, moving 
through a cloud-land too ethereal for the needs of each day 
as it comes. Nance Demaine could hold her own in the open 
country; but here, shut in by the walls of a house that was 
old and dumb, waiting for the men’s return, she reached out 
for Will Underwood’s help, and needed him — or needed the 
untried, easy air of romance that he carried with him. 

She got up from the window-seat at last. The sleet and 
the piping wind wearied her. She was tired already of inac- 
tion, ashamed of the thoughts that could not keep away from 
pictures of Will Underwood, riding on the Prince’s service. 
She remembered that she was a guest here, that she must 
get away from her dreams as best she might. 

“ I must go down,” she said fretfully. “ Lady Royd will be 
needing me. And she’ll take my hands, and cry a little, and 
ask me, ‘ Will Sir Jasper live? ’ And then she’ll kiss me, and 


114 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


cry again, and ask, ‘ Will Sir Jasper die? ’ Oh, I know it all 
beforehand ! But I must go down.” 

Even now she could not bring herself to the effort. She 
paced up and down the floor of her bedchamber. Disdain of 
her position here, intemperate dislike of weaklings, the long- 
ing to be out and about under the free sky, were overwhelm- 
ing in their call to this child who needed discipline. And, 
though she was Squire Demaine’s child, she resented this first, 
drab-coloured call of duty. 

She braced herself to the effort. But she was bitter still, 
and some remembrance of her father’s teaching took her un- 
awares. “ Lady Royd comes from the south country, where 
they killed a Royal Stuart once,” she muttered. “ She does 
not know — she cannot even learn — our northern ways. Sir 
Jasper lives or dies — but either way he lives. She does not 
know that either way he lives — as we count life up here.” 

Nance was shaken by the passion known to women who 
have seen their men go out to war — the passion that finds no 
outlet in hard give-and-take — the desperate, keen heartache 
that is left to feed upon itself. 

“ I must go down,” she said, as if repeating a lesson hard to 
learn. 

As she opened the door and crossed the landing, she heard a 
heavy footfall on the stair below, then Simon Foster’s laboured 
breathing. Some instinct of disaster chilled her. In this 
house of emptiness, with the wind roaming like an unquiet 
ghost down every corridor, she listened to the uncanny, stealthy 
up-coming. Once, years ago, she had heard men bringing 
home her brother, killed in the hunting-field ; and it seemed to 
her that she was listening to the same sounds again, was feel- 
ing the same vague, unreasoning dread. Then she remem- 
bered that Rupert had been missing since dawn, and she was 
moved by some grief that struck deeper than she understood. 

They turned the corner of the stair at last, and Nance saw 
Rupert coming up — Rupert, his face grey and tired as he 
leaned on Simon’s arm; Rupert, who looked older, manlier, 


THE HEIR RETURNS 


115 


more like Sir Jasper. And then, for no reason she could have 
given, she lost half her grief. At least he was not dead ; and 
there was a look about him which stronger men of her 
acquaintance had worn when they were in the thick of trouble. 

There was a long, mullioned window lighting the stairway 
head. And Rupert, looking up, saw Nance standing there — 
close to him, yet far away as some lady of dreams might 
stand. The keen winter’s sun, getting out from sleet-clouds, 
made a St. Luke’s summer round about her; and Nance, who 
was just comely, good to see, at other times, borrowed a 
strange beauty from the hour and place, and from the human 
pity that was troubling her. 

Rupert halted on the landing, and looked at her as if she 
were food and drink to him. Then he flushed, and turned his 
head. 

“You? ” he said quietly. “ I’d rather have met any one but ' 
you just now.” 

“And why, my dear?” asked Nance, with simple tender- 
ness. 

“ Why ? Because I’m maimed, and sick at heart,” he said 
savagely. 

“How did it come about?” she interrupted, with the same 
impulsive tenderness. 

“ I tried to join the Rising, and was thrown. So much was 
to be expected, Nance?” 

She had been thinking hard things of stay-at-homes and 
weaklings ; and, as she looked at Rupert now, she was touched 
by keen reproach. He was ashamed, tired out, in pain of soul 
and body; yet he was smiling, was making a jest of his indif- 
ferent horsemanship. 

Nance recalled once more that evening on the moors, when 
Rupert had bidden Will Underwood ride with her to Windy- 
hough, while he stayed with his brother. In his voice, in the 
set of his whole face, there had been a stubborn strength that 
had astonished her; and here again, on the sunlit, draughty 
stairhead, he was showing her a glimpse of his true self. 


116 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

“ I wish you better luck,” she said simply — “ oh, so much 
better luck.” 

He saw that there were tears in her eyes, and felt his weak- 
ness coming on him like a cloud, and fought it for a moment 
longer. 

“ It will come, Nance,” he said — cheerily, though he felt 
himself a liar. “ Go down to mother. She — she needs help 
more than I. Now, Simon, you’ve got your breath again.” 

“ Ay, maister — as mich as I shall ever get, as the short- 
winded horse said when they asked him why he roared like 
a smithy-bellows.” 

“ Then I’ll go forward ” — again the keen, bitter smile — “ to 
the lumber-room, Simon, among the broken odds and ends.” 

Nance stood aside, finding no words to help herself or him, 
and watched them go along the corridor, and in at the door of 
Rupert’s bedchamber. And she knew, beyond doubt or sur- 
mise, that the Loyal Meet had left one useful volunteer at 
home to-day. 

She found Lady Royd in the low-raftered parlour that al- 
ways carried an air of luxury and ease. In summer it was 
heavy with the scent of garden flowers ; and now there was a 
tired, luxurious appeal from bowls of faded rose-leaves set 
everywhere about the room. A fire, too big for the comfort 
of open-air folk, was crackling on the hearth. In all things 
this parlour was a dainty frame enough for the mistress whose 
beauty had been nipped, not strengthened, by the keen winds 
of Lancashire. 

“ Nance, will he live?” asked Lady Royd, running forward 
with the outstretched hands, the very words, that she had 
looked for. But she spoke of Rupert, not of Sir Jasper. 
“ He came home so wearied-out — so lame and grey of 
face ” 

“ Oh, I met him on the stairhead just now,” broke in Nance, 
with sharp common sense. “ He’s had a fall from his horse — 
and he made a jest of it — and that is all.” 

“Then he’ll not die, you think? Nance, tell me, he’ll not 


THE HEIR RETURNS 117 

die. I’ve been unkind to him in days past, and I — I am 
sorry.” 

It seemed to Nance that in this house of Windyhough she 
was never to escape from pity, from the sharper, clearer in- 
sight into life that these hopeless days were teaching her. 
This pretty matron, whom her husband had spoiled, sheltering 
her from draughts as if she were a hothouse flower too rare 
to take her chance in the open border — she was foolish as of 
old, so far as speech and manner went. But in her face, in 
her lisping, childish voice, there was a new, strong appeal that 
touched the younger woman. 

“ I think that he — will live ” said the girl, with sudden pas- 
sion. “ He’s here among the women now — but to-morrow — 
or the next day, or the next — he’ll prove himiself.” 

Lady Royd moved aimlessly about the room, warmed her 
hands at the fire, shivered as she glanced at the wintry sun- 
light out of doors. Then she came close to Nance, as if ask- 
ing protection of some kind. “ You hold the Faith, child. I 
do not,” she said, with bewildering candour. 

“ But, Lady Royd — indeed, we’re of the same Faith ” 

“ Yes, in the open shows, when folk are looking on. I’d as 
lief go abroad without my gown as not be seen at Mass. It 
is asked of Sir Jasper’s wife; so is constancy to the yellow- 
haired laddie who has sent sober men astray. Veiled lids are 
asked for when Will Underwood makes pretty speeches, with 
his eyes on fire ; but at my heart, child — at my heart I’ve faith 
only in each day’s ease as it comes.” 

“ Mr. Underwood has gone to the wars,” broke in Nance, 
with an odd sense of misery and an obstinate contempt, for 
all that, of this woman’s prattling. “ He’ll come back in 
his own time, Lady Royd, after the King is on his throne 
again.” 

“ But has he gone to the wars ? I missed him among our 
friends to-day.” 

“ Because he has ridden on a private errand of the Prince’s.” 
Nance was reckless in her protection of Will’s honour. “ He 


118 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

was the likeliest rider of them all to be chosen for such 
service.” 

“ Oh, there ! And I hoped he would be wise, and stay at 
home, and ride over now and then to cheer us with his pleasant 
face.” Her smile was frail and listless, with a certain youth- 
ful archness in it that drew men to her side ; but its appeal was 
lost on Nance. “ Of course, I am loyal to Sir Jasper — and I 
shall cry each night till he returns — but Will’s homage is 
charming, Nance. It is so delicate, child — a word here, and 
a glance there — that one forgets one is middle-aged. He 
spent some years in Paris, they say — to escape from his 
father’s money-making and from the bleak chapel on the hill — 
and I can well believe it. The French have that gift of sug- 
gesting a grand passion, when neither actor in the comedy be- 
lieves a word of it.” 

Nance moved away, and looked out at the sunlight and the 
sleety hills. So strong, so impulsive, was her resistance to Sir 
Jasper’s wife that even the “ bleak chapel on the hill ” — she 
knew it well, a four-square, dowdy little building not far from 
her own home — took on an unsuspected strength and dignity. 
It was reared out of moor-stone, at least — reared by stubborn, 
if misguided, folk who were bred on the same uplands as her- 
self. Will Underwood had learned follies in Paris, undoubt- 
edly; but, if her liking for him, her care for his honour, had 
any meaning, it rested on the faith that he had outgrown these 
early weaknesses, that he was English to the core. He could 
ride straight — there was something pathetic in her clinging 
to this one, outstanding virtue — he was known among men to 
be fearless, strong in all field sports ; he had endurance and a 
liking for the open air. And Lady Royd, in her vague, heed- 
less way, had painted him as a parlour lapdog, who could 
while a pleasant hour away for women who lived in over- 
heated rooms. 

Nance was obstinate in her loyalty to friends; yet she re- 
membered now stray hints, odds and ends of scandal passed 
between the women after dinner, while they waited for the 


THE HEIR RETURNS 


119 

men to join them; and all had been agreed that Will Under- 
wood had the gift of making the last woman who engaged his 
ardour believe she was the first. 

Lady Royd warmed her hands at the fire again, and 
laughed gently. “ Why, child, you’re half in love with him, 
like the rest of us. I know it by your silence.” 

And Nance, whose good-humour was a byword among her 
intimates, found her temper snap, like any common, ill-forged 
sword might do. “ By your leave,” she said, “ I never did 
anything by halves. My friends are my friends. I’m loyal, 
Lady Royd.” 

“ Yes, yes — and I — am middle-aged, my dear, and the fire 
grows cold already.” 

There was appeal in the older woman’s voice. She needed 
the girl’s strength, her windy, moor-swept grasp of the big 
hills and the bigger faith. But Nance was full of her own 
troubles, and would not heed. 

“ There are dogs left at Windyhough ? ” she said, moving to 
the door. “ Well, then, let me take them for a scamper. I 
cannot stay in prison, Lady Royd.” 

Nance swept out of the parlour, with its faded scent of rose- 
leaves, donned hat and cloak, and went out in hot rebellion to 
cool her fever in the nipping wind. She did not guess how 
she was needed by this frail, discontented woman she had 
left indoors. 

Lady Royd, indeed, was human — no more, no less. She 
could not escape in a moment from the spoiled, settled habits 
of a lifetime. Sir Jasper had ridden out, and the misery of 
it had been sudden, agonising. Rupert had blundered home, 
in his derelict way, with a sprained ankle and a face as white 
as the hills he loved; and the motherhood in her, untrained, 
suppressed, had cut through her like a knife. All was desola- 
tion here; and she thought of her homeland — of the south 
country, where winds blew soft and quiet, and lilac bloomed 
before the leaf-buds had well broken here in Lancashire — and 
she was hidden by a mist of desperate self-pity. 


120 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Like Rupert, when he found himself lying in the mud of 
Langton Road not long ago and heard his horse go galloping 
down the wind, she thought of death as an easy pathway of 
escape. Like Rupert, she was not needed here. She was not 
of the breed that rides out, easy in saddle, on such heroic, 
foolish errands as Sir Jasper coveted. And yet, when she 
came to face the matter, she had not courage, either, to die 
and venture into the cold unknown beyond. 

She had talked of Will Underwood, of his easy gallantry, 
and Nance had thought her heartless ; yet she had sought only 
a refuge from the stress of feeling that was too hard for her 
to bear. 

She moved up and down the parlour, in her haphazard, use- 
less way. Her husband had ridden out on a venture high and 
dangerous; and she was setting a cushion to rights here, 
smoothing the fold of a curtain there, with the intentness of 
a kitten that sees no farther than its playthings. But under 
all there was a fierce, insistent heartache, a rebellion against 
the weakness that hindered her. She began to think of Ru- 
pert, to understand, little by little, how near together they 
were, he and she. Her cowardice seemed lifted away by 
friendly hands, as she told herself that she would go up and 
sit at the lad’s bedside. She had known him too little in years 
past ; there was time now to repair mistakes. 

Simon Foster was watching the master, as he lay in that 
sleep of sheer exhaustion, following long effort and self-doubt, 
which was giving him strength and respite before the morrow 
needed him. Simon heard a low tapping at the door, opened 
it, saw Lady Royd standing on the threshold. 

“ Is he asking for me? ” she said diffidently. 

“ No, my lady. He’s asking for twelve hours o’ sleep — and 
he’ll get them, if I’ve any say i’ the matter.” 

“ But you’ll be tired, Simon, and I — I am wide awake. Let 
me sit by him ” 

“ You’re kind,” he interrupted bluntly ; “ but I’m watchdog 


THE HEIR RETURNS 121 

here, by your leave. It happens to be war, not peace — and no 
offence, my lady.” 

She turned, aware that a man was in command here; and 
Simon was left to his interrupted musings. 

“ By the Heart,” he growled, “ if only he could find his way ! 
He’s lean and weak ; but the lad’s keen, hard-bitten pluck — it’s 
killing him before his time, it is. He can find no outlet for it, 
like.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 

Sir Jasper, riding sometimes at the head of his men, at 
others near the Prince, had little time for backward thoughts 
during this surprising march. Each day was full of peril; 
but each day, too, was full of chance humours of the road, of 
those odds and ends of traffic by the way which turn men’s 
thoughts from a too deep, unpractical thinking of the high 
Cause only to the means by which step by step, it is to be 
attained. 

In full truth they were following the open road, these gentry 
of the Prince’s. Marshal Wade was blundering down from 
the north to take them in the rear. The Duke of Cumberland 
was waiting for them 1 somewhere round about the Stafford 
country. They rode through villages and towns that were not 
hostile — hostility is a nettle to grasp and have done with it — 
but indifferent or afraid. Throughout this cold and sloppy 
march, wet through, with the keen wind piping through their 
sodden clothes, the greatest hardship that met them was the 
lack of fierce and stubborn fight. 

The Highlanders grew tired and listless, and Prince Charles, 
who knew their temper to a nicety, for it was his own, was 
forced at last to bid the pipers cease playing reels and strath- 
speys down the road. 

“ With all submission, your Highness,” said Lord Murray 
petulantly, riding to his side as they marched out of Lancaster, 
“ I would ask your reason. The pipers not to play ? It is all 
the comfort these Highlanders can find in England here.” 

Sir Jasper, riding near, saw the Prince turn, with that quick, 
hardly restrained impatience which Murray’s presence always 
caused. “ I gave the order,” he answered, with deliberate 

122 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


123 


calm, “ because I know your Highlanders — I, who was bred 
in France — better than their leaders. Give me an army in 
front, my lord Murray, give me Wade, or Cumberland, or the 
Elector, barring the road ahead, and the pipes shall sing, I 
promise you.” 

Then suddenly he threw his head up. His face, grown old 
and tired, furrowed by sleepless care for his five thousand 
men, was young again. He was seeing far ahead, beyond the 
mud and jealousies of these wintry English roads. And again 
Sir Jasper understood why the women up in Edinburgh had 
gone mad about this Stuart with the yellow hair. The decent 
women love a fighter always — a fighter for some cause that is 
big and selfless ; and the Prince’s face, just now, was lit by 
some glow from the wider hills. 

“ The pipes shall sing,” he went on, his voice deep, tender, 
hurried. “ They’ll play like quick-silver, Lord Murray, when 
— when the Hanover men care to meet us in the open.” 

“ But meanwhile, your Highness, we’ve to trudge on, and 
I say you’re forbidding meat and drink to your troops when 
you’ll not let them hear the pipes.” 

Sir Jasper moved his horse forward. They were alone, 
the three of them, a furlong ahead of the army. Lord Mur- 
ray’s tone was so bitter, so like a scolding woman’s that Sir 
Jasper’s instinct was to intervene, to take the quarrel on his 
own shoulders and settle it, here by the wayside, in the honest 
Lancashire way. He was checked by the Prince himself, 
who returned from the hills of dreams with surprising quick- 
ness. 

“ We’ve to trudge on,” he said, with workaday grasp of the 
affairs in hand. “ You find the exact word, Lord Murray, as 
your habit is. What use, then, to let the pipes go singing, 
music into men’s feet? We have to trudge .” 

Murray, dour, unimaginative, possessed by a fever of jeal- 
ousy which would not let him rest, was scarcely civil. And 
manners, after all, are the outward sign of character. “ Your 
Highness issues commands, and we obey ” 


124 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Why, yes. I came from France to issue them,” broke in 
the other, with a disdain that was royal in its quietness. 

Sir Jasper thought of his windy house in Lancashire, of the 
dreams he had fed upon, of the long preparation for this 
march that was to light England with loyal fires. And he was 
here, riding at a footpace through the dreary roads, watching 
the rift widen between the Prince and Murray. He was op- 
pressed by some omen of the days to come, or by the sadness 
of the Highlanders, who sought a fight and could not find it. 
He had dreamed of an army — loyal, compact, looking neither 
to left nor right — that would march, at speed and with a single 
purpose, on London, an army that would not rest until it drove 
the Hanoverian abroad. Instead, there were divided counsels, 
a landscape dreary and rain-shrouded, and Murray for ever 
at their elbows, sowing doubt and dull suspicion. 

“ Your Highness,” said Sir Jasper, all in his quick, hill-bred 
way, “ we seem to be riding on a Lenten penance, and Christ- 
mas is six weeks off as yet. Surely Lord Murray would be 
well quit of his dourness.” 

The Prince turned in saddle. “ My thanks, Sir Jasper,” he 
said, with an easy laugh. “ Lord Murray has never kept a 
Lenten fast — it smacks too much of superstition, he says ; but, 
by the God we serve, Sir Jasper, he would likely be the better 
for it.” 

So then Murray, seeing two against him and not relishing 
the odds, lost his temper outright. “ Superstition does not 
carry armies on to victory,” he snapped. 

“ No,” assented the Prince, as if he reckoned up a sum in 
simple addition. “ But faith, my lord Murray — it carries men 
far and happily.” 

Murray checked himself with obvious effort, and they rode 
on in silence for a while. “ Your Highness, I spoke hastily 
just now,” he said by and by. His voice, try as he would, 
had no warmth in it, no true sincerity. “ I ask your pardon.” 

“ Oh, that is granted. Our royal purse is empty, but we 
can still be spendthrift with forgiveness.” 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


125 


Again Sir Jasper glanced at this many-sided Prince of his. 
The smile, the grave rebuke hidden beneath gentlest courtesy, 
were not his own ; they were gifts entrusted to his keeping by 
many generations of the Stuart race. They had not always 
done well or wisely, these Stuarts; but wherever down the 
track of history they had touched a world made dull and 
ugly by the men who lived in it, they had stood always 
for the buoyant faith, the clean and eager hope, the royal 
breadth of sympathy that sweeps shams and make-believes 
aside. 

Sir Jasper, riding through this wet, unlovely country, found 
himself once more in that mood of tenderness, of wrath and 
pity, which had surprised him not long ago in Langton High 
Street. The islanders of Skye — Skye, in the misty Highland 
country — had known this mood from birth and were ac- 
customed to it, as they were used to the daily labour to win 
bread, from land or sea, for their wives and briarns. But Sir 
Jasper was young to it, and was disturbed by the simple, tragic 
pity that seemed to cling about the Stuart — a something filmy 
and impalpable, as if with him always there rode a phantom 
shape of martyrdom to come. 

He sought relief in action, glanced up and down the high- 
way in hope of straightforward, healthy battle.^ But Marshal 
Wade was a good three days' march in the rear, and the Duke 
of Cumberland was playing hide-and-seek along the Stafford- 
shire lanes without success. 

Sir Jasper turned from looking up and down the road, and 
saw Lord Murray riding close on his right. The man’s face 
was set and hard ; and Sir Jasper, with the intuition that comes 
to tired and heartsick men, knew that the enemy was here 
among them — not in the shape oi an army challenging en- 
deavour, but of one cautious Scotsman who was busy saving 
halfpennies while guineas were going down the wind. 

As if to prove Sir Jasper’s judgment accurate, Lord Mur- 
ray broke the silence. “ You spoke of faith just now, your 
Highness,” he said. 


126 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Why, yes — because you asked it of me. One seldom 
speaks of such matters unless compelled.” 

“ Then, with all submission, I say that faith is for kirk on 
Sabbaths, for the quietness of a man’s bedchamber ; but we’re 
here in open war. War — I’ve seen it overseas, and have been 
wounded twice — is a cold, practical affair, your Highness.” 

So then the Prince glanced at Sir Jasper and laughed out- 
right, and after that was silent for a while. “ My lord Mur- 
ray,” he said quietly, “ faith, mine and Sir Jasper’s, goes into 
battle with us, goes into every road we take. I’m ashamed, 
somehow, to speak so plainly of — of what I know.” 

“ May I speak of what I, too, know ? ” put in Murray 
sharply. “ It is of war I speak, your Highness. I know the 
rules of it — know that this hurried march of ours through 
England can end only in disaster. Retreat in good order, 
even now, is our only course — retreat to Scotland, where we 
can gather in the clans that were slow to join us ” 

“Retreat?” said the Prince, his head lifted suddenly, his 
voice ringing with command and challenge. “ I never learned 
the word, at school or afterwards. Retreat? My lord Mur- 
ray, there’s only one plain rule of war — to ride forward, and 
plant your blow where the first opportunity serves.” 

“ That is our rule in Lancashire,” put in Sir Jasper dryly. 

Murray glanced at the two of them. He had hoped much 
from the cold logic that guided his days for him, had been 
sure that he could persuade the Prince to his own view: of the 
campaign; and these two, resolute in faith and almost gay, 
were treating him as if he were a stripling with much to learn 
in life beyond the rules of war and mathematics. 

“ I say, your Highness, that we’ve hardened troops against 
us, officered by men who have grown old in strategy ” 

“ And yet we’re here in spite of them, right through the 
northern counties, and likely to keep Christmas in London. 
We’re here, my lord Murray, because zeal laughs at strategy.” 

“ For all that,” put in Murray dryly, “ you’ll not let the pipes 


127 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 

be played. They, surely, are musical with faith — your own 
sort of faith, that bids men forget calculation and all else.” 

Again the Prince moved impatiently in saddle. “ I am not 
used to give reasons for my conduct, but you shall have them 
now, since you persist. My Highlanders, they take a dram to 
whet their appetite for meals ; but if there’s no meal waiting, 
why, my lord Murray, it is idle to offer them the dram.” 

“There’s no fight near at hand, you mean? Your High- 
ness, there are three big battles that I know of — and others, 
it may be — waiting close about us on this road to London. 
Give the Highlanders their pipes again. Their appetite needs 
sharpening if you persist in going forward.” 

The Prince glanced at Sir Jasper. “ We go forward, I 
think ? ” he asked, with a whimsical, quick smile. 

“ That is our errand,” Sir Jasper answered simply. 

“ Then, Lord Murray, ride back and bid the pipers play 
their fill. And I pray that one of your three phantom armies 
waiting for us on the London road may prove flesh and blood.” 

Murray was exact in his calculations. He was not greatly 
moved by the bagpipes, for his own part, but he knew that 
they were as necessary as food and drink to the Highlanders, 
who were the nerve and soul of this army following the for- 
lornest hope. He turned his horse and galloped back. 

And presently the footmen’s march grew brisker; jaded 
riders felt their nags move less dispiritedly under them. 

The pipes were singing, low at first, as if a mother crooned 
to her child up yonder in the misty Highlands. And then the 
music and the magic grew, till it seemed that windy March 
was striding, long and sinewy of limb, across the land of 
lengthening days and rising sap and mating beasts and birds. 
And then, again, there was a warmth and haste in the music, 
a sudden wildness and a tender pity, that seemed like April 
ushering in her broods along the nesting hedgegrows, the 
fields where lambs were playing, the banks that were gold 
with primroses, and budding speedwell, and strong, young 


128 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


growth of greenstuff. And then, again, from the rear of 
this tattered army that marched 'south to win a kingdom for 
the Stuart, full June was playing round about this wet and 
dismal Stafford country. The Prince knew it; Sir Jasper 
knew it. Even Lord Murray, riding far behind was aware 
that life held more than strategy and halfpennies. 

“ Dear God, the pipes ! ” said the Prince, turning sud- 
denly. “D’ye hear them, Sir Jasper?” 

“ Pm hill-bred, too, your Highness. Could I miss their 
note ? ” 

And they fell silent, for there is something in this hill music 
that touches the soul of a man. It finds out his need of 
battle, his instinct to be up and doing along the wide, human 
thoroughfares of life. And then it stifles him with pity, with 
homesickness and longing for the wife and bairns who, for 
all that, would not approve him if he failed to take the road. 
And then, again, it sounds the fighting note, till every fibre 
responds to the call for instant action. 

No action met them. They rode forward through the driv- 
ing wind, the Prince and Sir Jasper; and now the pipes, hur- 
ried and unwearied, played only mockery about them, rous- 
ing their strength while denying it an outlet. 

It was then Sir Jasper heard the first and last bitter word 
from the leader who had summoned him to this drear adven- 
ture. “ The pity of it! ” said the Prince. “ I ask only a free 
hand, and they’ll not give it me. Sir Jasper, what is amiss 
with Lord Murray? There was something left out of him at 
birth, I think — soul, or heart — or what you choose to name 
it. This march of ours — he will not listen when I tell him it 
is bigger than the strict rules of warfare.” 

Sir Jasper reined near and put a hand on the Prince’s 
bridle-arm, as a father might who sees his boy attempting 
more than his strength warrants. “ I understand,” he said 
simply. “ By your leave, I’ll play watchdog to Murray 
till we reach London. He stands for caution, and I ” — a 
sudden remembrance came to him of Windyhough, of the 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


129 


wife and heir, and his loneliness bit so deep that, for shame’s 
sake, he had to cover up his grief — “ and I, your Highness,” 
he added, with a touch of humour, “ have been blamed for 
many things, but never yet for caution.” 

“No, no. We might be old in friendship, you and I. We 
see the like world, Sir Jasper — the world that caution is too 
mean to enter. And yet my lord Murray — who has been bred 
among the hills, while I have not — has never learned their 
teaching, as I learned it at my first coming to the misty 
Highlands.” 

The pipes would not be quiet, behind them on this sloppy 
road. The Prince, as his habit was, had seen far and wisely 
when he forbade the music. To and fro the uproar went, 
wild, insistent, friendly as the cry of moor-birds — snipe and 
curlew and wide-roving plover — to men who love the uplands. 
The music lacked its fulness, for in these Midlands there 
were no mountains to echo it, to pass it on from rise to rise, 
till it grew faint and elfin-like among the blue moor-tops; 
but even here the pipes were swift and tender with persua- 
sion. 

“ All this, Sir Jasper,” the Prince said by and by — “ the 
pipes playing fury into us, and in front of us the empty road. 
Murray promised us three battles at the least, and we’re here 
like soldiers on parade.” 

Sir Jasper had cherished dreams of this Rising, but war, 
in the hot fighting and in the dreary silences between, is not 
made up of dreams. The poetry of it comes before and 
after, when peace smooths her ruffled plumage and sings of 
heroism; the prose of it is so commonplace that men sensi- 
tively built need dogged loyalty to keep them safe from dis- 
illusionment. 

“ The wind blows east, your Highness,” he said. “ You’ll 
pardon me, but an east wind sets my temper all on edge. 
My sympathy is catholic, but I’d hang the nether millstone 
round Lord Murray’s neck if I had my way.” 

The Prince glanced behind, because the pipes were tired of 


130 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


battle now, and were crooning lullabies — the strong, tender 
cradle-songs that Highland mothers know. “ No,” he said 
quietly. “ We share the same desire, but we’d relent.” 

“ Not I, for one.” 

“ Yes, you, for one, and I, for one, because we’re human. 
So few of your English folk are human, somehow, as I’ve 
seen them since my Highlanders crossed Annan River. 
They’re ill-clad, these Highland lads of mine, and raw to look 
at, but they carry the ready heart, Sir Jasper, and the simple 
creed — you can bend them till point meets hilt, like a Ferrara 
blade, and yet not break them.” 

“We are tempered steel in Lancashire, your Highness,” 
said Sir Jasper, in passionate defence of his county. “ Few 
of us have come to the Rising, but I can answer for each man 
of mine that follows you.” 

“ I was hasty ; the pipes play that mood into a man. 
When we planned this Rising, years ago in France, the King 
— my father — bade me remember always that Lancashire was 
staunch and its women beautiful. The east wind must be 
excuse for me, too, Sir Jasper.” 

“ Your Highness, I spoke hastily. My temper, I tell you, 
is frayed at the edges by winter and harsh weather.” 

“ I like your temper well enough, Sir Jasper. Let’s take a 
pinch of snuff together, since there’s nothing else to do.” 

It was in this mood that they rode into a little village clus- 
tered round a stream. The hamlet was so small that the 
crowd of men and women gathered round about the ford 
seemed bigger than its numbers. The villagers, enticed by the 
news that the Rising neared their borders, raised a sudden 
tumult when they saw the van of the army ride into sight. 
Curiosity held them, while fear and all the rumours they had 
heard prompted them to instant flight. Mothers clutched 
their babies, and turned as if to run for shelter, then turned 
again and halted between two minds, and must needs stay 
to see what these queer Highlanders were like. The younger 
women, glad of this respite from the day’s routine, ogled the 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


131 


Prince and Sir Jasper with unaffected candour. The men 
looked on sheepishly, afraid for their own safety, but not con- 
tent to leave their women in the lurch. 

“ Here’s the cannibals from Scotland ! ” cried one big, 
shrill-voiced woman. “ They feed on English babies, so we’re 
told. Dear mercy, I hope they’ve had their breakfast earlier 
on the road ! ” 

The Prince checked his horse suddenly. His face was 
flushed, ashamed, as if a blow had struck him on the cheek. 
“ My good woman,” he said, bending 'from saddle to look 
into her plump, foolish face, “ have they lied so deep to you 
as that? ” 

“ Lies? Nay, I know what I’m talking about, or should do 
at my years. There’ve been well-spoken gentry in and out 
these weeks past, and they all had the same tale ; so it stands 
to reason the tale was true as Candlemas.” She set her arms 
akimbo. The quietness of this horseman who talked to her, 
his good looks and subtle air of breeding, had killed her ter- 
ror and given her instead a bravado no less foolish. “ Thou’rt 
well enough to look at, lad, and I wish I was younger, I do, 
to kiss ye on the sly when my man didn’t happen to be look- 
ing; but the rest o’ ye, coming down the road, ye’re as 
ragged a lot o’ trampish folk as I’ve set eyes on.” 

The Prince laughed, not happily, but as if the pipes were 
bidding him weep instead. Then he plucked his mare for- 
ward — Nance Demaine’s mare, which he had borrowed — and 
splashed through the ford. And it was not till the hamlet was 
a mile behind him that he turned to Sir Jasper. 

“ A lie chills me,” he said abruptly ; “ especially a lie that 
is foisted on poor, unlettered folk. They told me this and 
that, Sir Jasper, of Hanoverian methods, and I — what shall 
I say? — disdained , I think, to believe it of an enemy. They 
will not fight us in the open since we worsted them at Pres- 
tonpans, but instead they send ‘ well-spoken gentry ’ to honey- 
comb the countryside with lies.” 

Sir Jasper, the more he followed the open road with this 


132 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


comrade in adversity, found ever and ever a deeper liking 
for him. He could be ashamed, this Stuart whom women 
had done their best to spoil in Scotland — could be ashamed 
because his Highlanders were slighted ; could stand apart from 
his own danger and weariness, and grow hot with punctilious 
care for the honour of the men who followed him. And the 
older man thought no longer of Windyhough, of ties that 
had not been sundered lightly; he was content to be in com- 
pany with one who, by instinct and by training, was a leader 
of the true royal fibre. 

The Prince was glancing straight ahead as they jogged 
forward, and in his eyes was the look which moorland folk 
know as “ seeing far.” 

“ My Highlanders are cannibals ? ” he said, not turning his 
head, seeming to need no listener, or to have forgotten that 
he rode in company. “ The men I’ve learned to know by 
heart during these last wintry months — is that their reputa- 
tion?” 

“ It was a silly woman’s gibe, your Highness,” put in the 
other, with blunt common sense. “ Surely you’re not moved 
by it?” 

“ It was more. They have been sending paid liars up and 
down the length of this road to London — have fouled the go- 
ing for us. I tell you, Sir Jasper, that lies make me sick at 
heart. I tell you an enemy that will go so far in cowardice 
will afterwards do anything, I think — kill wounded men as 
they lie helpless on the battlefield ” 

“ No, no, your Highness! With all submission, your anger 
carries you away.” 

“I am not angry — only tired and sick at heart, and seeing 
far ahead. I say that I am seeing it — a bleak moor in the 
Highland country, and men lying on the ground, and a rough 
bullock of a man shouting, ‘ Kill these wounded rascals ; put 
them out of pain ! ’ And the wounded are — my Highlanders, 
who follow me for love. There are MacDonalds and Ogilvies 
and men from the Isles — I see their faces, and the resolute, 


133 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 

keen pain that will not flinch. The wind’s whistling down 
the moor like Rachel crying for her children, and the corbie- 
crows are looking on.” 

Sir Jasper crossed himself with instinctive piety. So had 
he felt, up yonder on the hills of Lancashire, when the winds 
raved through the heather and down the glens, teaching him 
sorrow, and the second sight, and the need to prove himself 
a man in a world of doubt and mystery. 

“ What then, your Highness ? ” he asked soberly. 

“ What then ? ” The Prince passed a hand across his eyes, 
turned with the smile that drew men to his side. “ Your par- 
don, Sir Jasper. I’ve been up the hill o’ dreams, since action 
is denied me. What then? Why, the road ahead, and each 
day’s hazard as it comes.” 

The next day, as they marched out of Leek, in Stafford- 
shire, Sir Jasper rode back along the line of march to see 
that Maurice, his younger born, was proving himself a good 
deputy in command of the Lancashire men. On his way 
through the scattered units that made up this army of the 
Prince’s, he was met by a Highlander who came down the 
road on foot, carrying a mirror — a little, oak-framed thing 
that he had begged from a cottage where they had given him 
food and drink — and he was halting, now and then, to hold 
it up and look into it with pious fervour. And then again 
he would dance and caper like a child with a new toy before 
halting for another glance at it. 

The man’s antics were so droll, the humour of it all so 
unexpected, that Sir Jasper checked his horse. “ What do 
you see there, my friend?” he asked, pointing to the mirror. 
He spoke a little Gaelic, which he had learned, with some hard- 
ship, from Oliphant of Muirhouse and other night-riders 
who had called at Windyhough during the past years. 

The Highlander, hearing his own tongue, spoke as to a 
friend. “ What do I see ? My own face, and I’ve not seen 
it since I left Skye.” 

“ Well, it’s a face worth looking at,” said the other, pass- 


134 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


in g an easy jest. “ You’ll not be taken — alive — by any man 
in England; but I fear for you among the women.” 

And the man laughed pleasantly. And then, with surpris- 
ing swiftness, the Skye gladness, that is never far from the 
mists o’ sorrow, gave way to passionate tears. “ It carried 
me back, this bit o’ magic,” he said, in the swift, tender 
speech for which there are no English words — “ back to 
Skye, and the blue hills i’ the gloamingtide, and the maid who 
would not have me at a gift. I used to go down by the burn, 
where the deep pool lies under the rowans, and see my face 
there — that was when I was courting Jock Sinclair’s maid 
in last year’s summer, and she said I’d a face to scare crows 
away with, but none for a lass that had the pick o’ Skye to 
choose from.” 

“ And you lost her, and came south to see if the yellow- 
haired laddie could give you likelier work?” 

“ Nay, I married her,” said the Highlander, with a gravity 
complete and childlike. “ She changed her mind in a week, 
and we’d a bonnie wooing; and since then she’s led me the 
de’il’s own dance ower dyke and ditch. And I used to get 
up to the hills and play the pipes, all by my lone among the 
whaups and eagles, and wish myself unwedded. And then 
the Prince called me, and I had to follow; and ’twas then 
I knew I loved her very well.” He paused for a moment to 
glance into the mirror which, to him, was the pool in Skye 
where the rowans waved above the stream. “ And now I’m 
missing her, and the pipes go skirling, skirling, and there’s 
no man at all to fight with. It’s thirsty I am to whet my 
claymore for a while, and then get home again to the de’il’s 
dance Jock Sinclair’s lass has waiting for me up in Skye.” 

Sir Jasper, by and by, rode back in search of his own 
company of horse, and his thoughts ran hither and thither. 
This Highlander, with the eyes and the sinewy, lean shoul- 
ders that any man or woman might approve, this passion- 
ate and simple child who went down the highway hugging 
his mirror because it brought Skye and the wooingtide to 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


135 


mind — he was no more to these Midlands than a savage from 
the northern wilds. “ They feed on English babies ” — the 
lie set abroad by agents of a king who doubted his own cause, 
the lie repeated by a lazy, unkempt woman at the village 
ford, was chilling Sir Jasper now, though not long ago he 
had chidden the Prince for the same fault. It was in the 
breed of him to hate a lie at sight as healthy men loathe ver- 
min. And yet they were powerless to meet this stealthy mode 
of warfare, because the Prince's men, with all their faults, 
were accustomed only to the open fight and honest tactics. 

Then, little by little, Sir Jasper sought for the cause of all 
this unrest and happiness that was dogging the steps of an 
army that had fought Prestonpans, that had taken Carlisle, 
that had marched through half England with a security which 
in itself was triumph. They were heading straight for Lon- 
don. The men, undaunted by forced marches, were in keen 
fighting temper, asking constantly for the enemy to show 
himself. Fortune was with them ; the glow of old allegiance 
was with them. Each league they covered was so much added 
proof to the waverers that they followed a winning cause. 
And yet somehow a chill was settling on them all, a cold, 
intangible distrust. Sir Jasper felt it against his will. The 
Prince was feeling it. 

Sir Jasper had set out on this enterprise with a single aim ; 
but already his view of it was muddied a little by the politics, 
the jealousies, the daily friction that creep into the conduct 
of all human ventures. He could not stand far off, as yet, 
from the bigness and simplicity of the dreams he had nursed 
at Windyhough. Up yonder on the moors, as he mapped 
out the campaign, it had been a gallop against odds, a quick 
battle, death on the field, or a ride into London to see the 
Stuart crowned with fitting pomp and thanksgiving. And 
instead, there had been these days and days of marching at 
a foot pace, without a chance skirmish to enliven them — days 
spent in ploughing through roads fetlock-deep in mud, with the 
east wind harrying them like a scolding tongue, days spent in 


136 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


watching the leaders of the Highland clans drifting each day 
nearer to the whirlpool of unrest that revolved about Lord 
Murray. 

The men who passed Sir Jasper, as he rode back to join his 
company, were awed by the sheer fury in his face. He did 
not see them. Kilted men on foot met him, and Lowlanders 
in tattered breeks, riding nags as rough-coated as themselves. 
And some from the pick of Scotland’s chivalry glanced at him 
for a nod of recognition, and saw him looking straight ahead 
with murder in his eyes. 

Sir Jasper was in the mood that, now and then, had fright- 
ened his wife up yonder on the moors of Lancashire. He 
had kept the Faith. He had given up wife and bairns and 
lands if things chanced to go astray. And there was one man 
in this Rising who was the traitor in their midst. Scholarly, 
yet simple in his piety, Sir Jasper was in the thick of that 
stormy mood which hillmen know — a mood pitiless and keen 
as the winds bred in the hollows of the wintry moor, a mood 
that goes deeper than training, and touches, maybe, the bed- 
rock of those stormy passions known to the forefathers of 
the race when all the heath was lit with feuds. 

It was now that good luck found Sir Jasper. There was 
an empty stretch of road in front of him. He was alone 
with the black mood that he hated — the mood he could not 
kill ; and the bitter wind was finding out the weak places in 
a body not too young. And then round the bend of the high- 
way rode Lord Murray; and Sir Jasper felt a little stir of 
gladness, as if the wind had shifted to a warmer quarter. 

Murray was unaccompanied, save for his aide-de-camp — a 
careless, pleasant-faced youth of twenty, Johnstone by name, 
who was destined afterwards to write a diverting and boy- 
ishly inaccurate account of a campaign whose shallows only, 
not its depths, were known to him. 

“ Of all men, I’ve hoped most to meet you, my lord Mur- 
ray,” said Sir Jasper, drawing rein. “ Your friend can ride 
apart ; I’ve much to say to you.” 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


137 


Murray, too, drew rein, glanced hard and uncivilly at Sir 
Jasper, and turned with a smile to his aide-de-camp. “ The 
Lancashire manner is curt, Mr. Johnstone,” he said. “ What 
is this gentleman’s name again? He joined us at Langton, I 
remember, and his Highness was pleased to overdo the 
warmth of his greeting. It is a way the Prince has, and it 
answers well enough with the women, to be sure.” 

“ My name is Jasper Royd,” broke in the other, his temper 
at a smooth white heat, “ and it is entirely at your service 
after this campaign is ended. I permit no man to sneer at 
his Highness, and you’ll give me satisfaction later.” 

Lord Murray took a pinch of snuff, smiled again behind 
his hand at Johnstone. “ There’s something — what shall I 
say, sir? — something old-fashioned in your loyalty, though it 
sits well enough on you, if ’twere a play we acted.” 

“ My loyalty is — just loyalty. There’s no change of fashion 
can alter the clean faith of a man.” 

“ Your pardon, but was this all you had to say to me? The 
wind is shrewd, Sir Jasper, and we can discuss loyalty — and 
punctilio and the duel you are eager for — when we next find 
an inn to shelter us.” 

Murray’s harsh, narrow egotism had seldom shown to 
worse advantage than now. Since first Sir Jasper rode into 
Langton Street with the big air about him that simple-minded 
gentlemen are apt to carry, since Murray had seen the 
Prince’s welcome, his jealousy had taken fire. It had slum- 
bered during the last days of hardship, but this meeting on 
the road had quickened it. 

“ I had more to say, much more,” Sir Jasper answered, 
quiet and downright. “ Again I ask you to bid Mr. John- 
stone ride behind.” 

“No, by your leave; he has my full confidence. You 
may speak your mind at once; but be speedy, for I would 
remind you that this is not midsummer.” 

Young Johnstone laughed, as youth will at unlikely times; 
and the laugh added a fine edge to Sir Jasper’s temper. 


138 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Then, as you’ll have it so, Mr. Johnstone shall be a 
listener. It is of this Rising I mean to speak — and of your 
share in it. You are young, Lord Murray, and I am getting 
old. You’re riding to the warfare you learned in set battles 
overseas, but we — the Prince, God bless him ! and the High- 
landers and my good lads from Lancashire — are out on a 
wider road.” 

“You will explain?” drawled Murray. 

“ D’ye think five thousand of us, ill-armed, can win to 
London by rules of war and maps and compasses ? ” 

“ I did not think from the first we had a chance of reach- 
ing London,” snapped the other. 

“ Yes,” put in Sir Jasper adroitly. “ We knew as much. 
You said, before Annan was reached, that we’d no chance 
of getting beyond Carlisle.” 

“ Who told you that ? ” said Murray, flurried and un- 
guarded. 

“ Oliphant of Muirhouse, who never lies, my lord. Well, 
we’re here in Staffordshire, and the London road still open 
to us ; and your prophecy, somehow, has miscarried.” 

Murray grew fidgety. Hot temper he knew, and suavity 
he knew, but not this subtle mixture of the two. “ Thank 
our good luck for that. They say Heaven guards all fools.” 

“ But more especially all true believers. That is my 
point. We’re adventurers, Lord Murray, not seasoned troops. 
We ride by faith, we ride for love of the Prince, of what 
he stands for — and we have come through odds that cautious 
generals would shirk — but we are here, in Staffordshire, and 
the London road, I say, is open to us.” 

“ Well, then, it’s a sermon, after all, you wish to preach. 
The clergy, my good Sir Jasper, are wiser than you; they 
preach between four snug walls that shut off this cursed 
wind.” 

“ Not a sermon,” said Sir Jasper doggedly. “ I preach 
common sense, to one whose faith is dulled by tactics.” 

Murray lost the bullying air that had carried him fairly 


THE ROAD TO THE T PI RONE 


139 

well through life. He felt dwarfed, ashamed, by some quality 
in Sir Jasper that overrode his self-importance and tram- 
pled it in the mire. “ Sir Jasper,” he asked sullenly, “ may 
I ask you for plain speech ? hat is your quarel with 
me?” 

“ You ask for plain speech? And you’ll not ask Mr. John- 
stone to ride out of earshot? No? Then he, too, shall listen 
to plain speech.” 

There was a moment’s silence. Murray wondered at the 
tense, lean carriage of this Lancashire squire, whose loyalty 
had been a jest among the cynics of the army, but for the 
others a steady beacon-light. He wondered more that Sir 
Jasper’s face, grey and lined a while since, was comely now 
in its heat and youthfulness. 

“ I say — deliberately, my lord — that you’re the Judas in 
this enterprise. I’m getting old, as I said, and I’ve looked 
about me during these last days, and I speak of what I know.” 
His temper cooled suddenly, but not his purpose. There was 
no pleasure now in lashing Murray — only the need to do his 
duty, as if he were bidden to shoot a deserter, made up of 
the same human clay and the same human frailty as he who 
pressed the trigger. “ The Highlanders — the rank and file — 
you cannot reach. But their leaders, my lord Murray — you 
know as well as I that you’re at work each day undermining 
the faith of better men and cleaner-hearted soldiers than your- 
self. It’s no secret that you wish to retreat ” 

“ To retreat, the better to spring forward,” put in Murray, 
with half-hearted effrontery. 

“ To retreat, I said. The Prince goes forward always. It 
is his habit. You’ve won many of the Highland chiefs to 
your side, but the best of them you cannot tempt.” 

“ You are curiously exact in your knowledge of my do- 
ings,” sneered Murray. 

“ I made it my business since the day I first set eyes on you 
at Langton. That is neither here nor there. And yet there 
are some of us you cannot tempt. The Duke of Perth ” 


140 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Yes, he, too, is mediaeval,” snarled Murray. “ You and 
he are out of date, Sir Jasper, and I tell you so.” 

Again young Johnstone laughed, though at heart his sym- 
pathy and liking went out to this queer, downright squire 
from Lancashire. 

“ Then Lochiel,” went on Sir Jasper buoyantly — “ is he, 
too, old and out of date? Lochiel — you know how the very 
name of him sings music to the Highlanders. Lochiel — dear 
God! the tears are in my eyes; he’s so like the free open 
moors I’ve left behind me.” 

Murray’s thin lips came together. It was plain now where 
the weakness lay in a face that otherwise was strong and 
manly. The mouth was that of a nagging woman querulous, 
undisciplined, lined with bygone sneers. He was jealous of 
the Prince — jealous of this fine, upstanding squire who spoke 
his mind with disconcerting openness ; but, most of all, he 
was jealous of Lochiel — Lochiel, the whisper of whose name 
set fire to loyal Highlandmen; Lochiel, who was gay and 
{ courtly and a pleasant comrade ; Lochiel, who was hard as 
granite when men touched his inner faith; he was all that 
Lord Murray hated, all that Murray wished to be, and could 
not be. 

“ Sir Jasper, you’ve been plain of speech,” he said, with 
sudden fury. “ Our quarrel need not be delayed. I ask Mr. 
Johnstone here if I can wait to give you satisfaction — until ” 
— again the smile that was a sneer — “ until after we are all 
beheaded on Tower Hill.” 

Sir Jasper glanced up and down the road. They had it 
to themselves, though at any moment a company might ride 
into view along the straggling route. It was a grave breach 
of discipline, this duel in the midst of warfare; and yet, 
somehow, he found it welcome. He turned to the aide-de- 
camp, glanced quietly at him. 

“ Mr. Johnstone,” he said, “ you cannot be friendly to 
Lord Murray and myself — it’s too wide a gulf for young legs 
to jump — but I can trust you, by the look of you, to see fair 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


141 


play between us. I have no friend at hand, and it happens 
that this business must be settled quickly.” 

They rode apart from the route, into a little wood where 
sycamores and oaks were bending to the keen, whipping 
gale. They found an open space, and got from horse, and 
took off their coats. To Lord Murray, a good swordsman, 
it was a chance to put out of action one who, in breed and 
temper, was too near akin to the Stuart and Lochiel. To Sir 
Jasper it was a call, clear, unhurried, to remove a traitor 
from the midst of honest men. 

They faced each other in the little glade. Murray was 
mathematical, exact, secure in his gift of fence. Sir Jasper 
was as God made him — not reckoning up the odds, but trust- 
ing that honesty would win the day. Young Johnstone 
watched; and, despite himself, his heart ached for the older 
man who pitted Lancashire swordcraft against Murray’s prac- 
tised steel. 

The fight was quick and brief; and the unexpected hap- 
pened, as it had done throughout this march of faith against 
surprising odds. Sir Jasper was not fighting for his own 
hand, but for the Prince’s ; and his gift of fence — to himself, 
who knew how time had rusted his old bones — was a thing 
magical, as if a score of years or so had been lifted from his 
shoulders. 

At the end of it he got clean through Murray’s guard ; and 
it was now that the duel grew dull and tragic to him, robbed 
altogether of its speed, its pleasant fire. He had fought for 
this one moment; he had his chance to strike wherever he 
chose, to kill or lay aside the worst enemy Prince Charles had 
found, so far, in England. And yet, somehow, his temper 
was chilled, and the struggle with himself, short as the flicker 
of an eyelid, seemed long, because it was so sharp and bitter. 
With an effort that was palpable to young Johnstone, looking 
on, he drew back his blade, rested its point in the sodden 
turf, and stood looking at his adversary. 

The action was so deliberate, so unexpected, that Murray 


142 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


let his own point fall ; and even he was roused for the moment 
from his harshness. He knew that this Lancashire squire, 
with the uncompromising tongue and the old-fashioned view 
of loyalty, had given him his life just now — ‘had given it with 
some sacrifice of inclination — knew that, in this wet and out- 
of-the-way corner of the world, he was face to face with a 
knightliness that he had thought dead long ago. 

And then Sir Jasper grew ashamed, in some queer way, of 
the impulse that had bidden him let Murray go unscathed. 
He sheathed his sword, bowed stiffly, untethered his horse, 
and got to saddle. 

“ I give you good-day, Lord Murray,” he said curtly. 
“ God bring you nearer to the Prince in days to come.” 

Murray watched him ride through the glade, out toward 
the open road where wayfaring loyalists were on the march. 
And from his shame and trouble a quiet understanding grew. 
His starved soul was quickened. A gleam from the bigger 
life cut across his precision, his self-importance, his gospel 
of arithmetic. 

His aide-de-camp looked on. Johnstone was unused to the 
tumults that beset older heads; and he had made a hero of 
this man who had been defeated — a little more than defeated 
— at his own game of swordcraft. And he was puzzled be- 
cause Murray did not curse his fortune, or bluster, or do 
anything but stand, hilt to the ground, as if he were in a 
dream. 

It was all quick in the doing. Murray got himself in 
hand, shrugged his shoulders, searched for his snuff-box. 
“ This is all very dismaying, Mr. Johnstone,” he drawled. “ I 
said from the start that we were forgetting every rule of 
warfare in this mad Rising. And yet — to be honest, Sir 
Jasper is something near to what I dreamed of before the 
world tired me — he’s very like a man, Mr. Johnstone. And 
there are few real men abroad these days.” 

Sir Jasper himself, as he rode back into the highway, was 
in a sad and bitter mood. He had spoken his mind, had 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


143 


fought and won the duel he had welcomed, and reaction was 
telling heavily on him just now. After all, he had done more 
harm than good by this meeting with Lord Murray. Private 
quarrels, carried as far as this had been, were treasonable, 
because they weakened all the discipline and speed of an 
attack against the common enemy. Moreover, a man of 
Murray’s temper could never understand how serviceable it 
is to admit defeat, and forget it, and go forward with the 
business of the day; he would plant the grudge, would tend 
and water it, till it grew from a sapling into a lusty, evil 
tree. 

He drew rein as he came through the ill-found bridle-track 
into the open road. Scattered men, on horse or on foot, 
passed by him; for the fight in the wood had been brief, and 
an army of five thousand takes long to straggle over 
slushy, narrow highways. And then Sir Jasper’s face grew 
cheery on the sudden. A company, in close and decent order, 
rode into view. He saw Lancashire faces once again — his 
son’s, and Squire Demaine’s, and Giles the bailiff’s, and fifty 
others that he knew by heart. 

They met him at the turning of the way, drew up, saluted 
him. And Sir Jasper found his big, spacious air again, be- 
cause he was at home with men who knew his record — with 
men reared, like himself, within sight of Pendle’s round and 
friendly hill. 

“ We’re full of heart, lads from Lancashire,” he said, tak- 
ing the salute as if he led a pleasant partner out to dance the 
minuet. “ By gad ! we’re full of heart, I tell you,” he broke 
off, with sharp return to his habit of command. “ The Lon- 
don road is open to the Prince; there are three armies chas- 
ing us, so Pm told, but they seem to shun close quarters. 
Lancashire men, Pm old, and all my bones are aching — and 
yet Pm gay. Giles, your face is sour as cream in thunder 
weather; Maurice, though you’re my son, you look lean and 
shrivelled, as if the wind had nipped you; is it only the old 
men of this Rising who are full of heart ? ” 


144 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ We’re spoiling for a fight, sir,” said Maurice, with a 
boy’s outspoken fretfulness, “ and instead there’s only this 
marching through dull roads, and no hazards to meet us ” 

“No heroics, you mean,” broke in Squire Demaine, who 
was riding close beside Maurice. “ See you, my lad, this is 
open war,” he went on — gruffly, because he, too, was weary of 
inaction. “ And war is not the thing the ballads sing about. 
It’s not crammed with battles, and all the ladies watching, 
ready with tears and lollipops for the wounded; it’s a bleak 
affair of marching, with little porridge and less cream to it — 
until — until you’re sick from hunger and fatigue. And then 
the big battle comes — and it sorts out the men from the weak- 
lings. And that is war, I tell you.” 

Sir Jasper reined up beside him, and the two older men 
rode forward, and the interrupted march moved stolidly again 
along the road to London — pad of hoofs, slush of tired foot- 
men through the sleety mire, whinnying of dispirited horses 
and murmur of round Lancashire oaths from the farmers 
who had left plough and fieldwork behind them, as they 
thought, and were finding the like dour routine on this high- 
way where no adventures met them. 

“ You heartened our men just now — and, gad ! they needed 
it,” said Squire Demaine, as they trotted out of earshot. 
“ But you carry a sad face, old friend, for all that. What 
ails you ? ” 

“ Lord Murray ails me,” snapped the other. “ He’s like 
a pestilence among us.” 

“ You’re precise. He is a pestilence. If we could per- 
suade Marshal Wade — or George — to take him as a gift, 
why, we’d reach London sooner. Give away a bad horse, if 
you can’t sell him, and let him throw the other man — there’s 
wisdom in the old saws yet.” 

“ I’m ashamed, Demaine,” said Sir Jasper, turning sud- 
denly. “ You gave Maurice sound advice just now, when he 
was headstrong and asking for a battle as children cry for 
toys. And yet it was I who needed your reproof.” 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


145 


And then he told of his meeting with Lord Murray on the 
road, of the fury that he could not check, of the duel in the 
wood. His tale was told so simply, with such diffidence and 
surety that he had been in the wrong, that Squire Demaine 
laughed gently. 

“ There’s nothing to your discredit, surely, in all this,” he 
said — “ except that you spared the Prince’s evil-wisher. Gad ! 
I wish my blade had been as near Murray’s heart. I ” 

“ You would have done as I did. We know each other’s 
weaknesses, Demaine — that is why our friendship goes so 
deep, may be. You’d have done as I did. We relent — as 
soon as we are sure that we have proved our case — have 
proved it to the hilt.” 

So then Squire Demaine blustered a little, and denied the 
charge, then broke into a laugh that was heard far back along 
the line of march. 

“ Squire’s found his hunting-laugh again,” said one Lan- 
cashire yeoman to his neighbour. 

“ Aye. We need it, lad,” the other answered. “ There’s 
been no hunting these last days.” 

The Squire himself rode silently beside his friend, then 
turned in saddle. “ Yes, we relent,” he said, with his happy- 
go-lucky air. “ Is that 'our weakness, Royd — or our 
strength ? ” 

“ I do not know.” Sir Jasper’s smile was grave and ques- 
tioning. “ The devil’s sitting on my shoulders and I do not 
know. A week since I’d have said that faith ” 

“ Aye, faith. We hold it fast — we know it true — but, to 
be honest, I’ve lost my bearings. I’d have dealt more gently 
with Maurice if I’d not shared his own longing for a fight.” 

“ Faith is a practical affair.” Sir Jasper was cold and self- 
reliant again, as when he had fought with Murray in the 
wood. “When the road is at its worst, and sleet blows up 
from the east, and we ask only to creep into the nearest ditch, 
and die as cowards do — when all seems lost. Demaine — 
surely, if faith means anything at all, it means ” 


146 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ You’re more devout than I,” snapped the Squire. “ So 
is the Prince. I talked with him yesterday. He was wet to 
the skin, and had just given his last dram of brandy to one 
Hector MacLean who had cramp in the stomach — and I was 
hasty, may be, as I always am when I see royalty of any sort 
go beggared. ‘ Your Highness,’ I said, ‘ the Blood Royal 
should receive, not give, and you needed that last dram, by 
the look of your tired face.’ And what did he answer, think 
ye? ‘ You’ve an odd conception of royalty, sir,’ said the 
Prince, his eyes hard and tender both. ‘ The Blood Royal 
— my father’s and mine — gives till it can give no more. It 
lives, or it dies — but it goes giving to the last hour.’ He’s a 
bigger man than I am, Royd.” 

They jogged forward. And presently Sir Jasper broke the 
silence. “ We are hurrying to dodge two armies, and we’re 
succeeding; would God they’d both find us, here on the road, 
and give us battle! That is our need. One battle against 
odds — and our men riding free and keen — and Murray would 
find his answer. I’d rather be quit of him that way than — 
than by striking at the bared breast of the man.” 

“ I know, I know,” murmured the Squire, seeing how hard 
Sir Jasper took this battle in the wood. “ Let Murray run 
his neck into the nearest halter ; he’s not fair game for honest 
gentlemen. You were right. And yet — my faith runs low, 
I tell you, and you might have spared a better man. The 
mouth of him— I can see it now, like a rat’s, or a scolding 
woman’s — you’ve a tenderer conscience than I.” 

Into the middle of their trouble rode Maurice, tired of shep- 
herding men who blamed him because he found no battle 
for them. 

“ I was sorry that Rupert could not ride with us,” he said, 
challenging Sir Jasper’s glance. 

Sir Jasper winced, for his heir was dear to him beyond the 
knowledge of men who have never bred a son to carry on the 
high traditions of a race. “If pluck could have brought him, 
he’d have been with us, Maurice,” he said sharply. 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


147 


“ I was not denying his pluck, sir ; he gave me a taste of 
it that day he fought like a wild cat on the moor.” His face 
flushed, for he had not known, until the separation came, 
how deep his love went for his brother. The novelty and up- 
roar of the march had stifled his heartache for a day or two, 
but since then he had missed Rupert at every turn. “ It was 
because I — because I know his temper, sir,” he went on, with 
a diffidence unlike his usual, quick self-reliance. “ He’d have 
been all for high faith, and a battle at the next road-corner; 
and these days of trudging through the sleet would have mad- 
dened him. I’m glad he stayed at home. He’d have picked 
a quarrel long since with one of our own company, just to 
prove his faith.” 

Squire Demaine glanced dryly at Sir Jasper. “ The young 
pup and the old pup, Royd. Maurice here has better judg- 
ment than I thought. I always said that Rupert was true to 
the Royd breed. Your own encounter in the wood just 
now ” 

“ Your encounter, sir?” broke in Maurice eagerly. “ Giles 
was saying to me just now that he’d rather be riding on his 
bailiff’s business up among the hills than be following this 
dog-trot through the rain. He said — and he was so quiet 
that I knew his temper was red-raw — he said that naught was 
ever like to happen again, so far as he could see, and he was 
longing for a thunderstorm, just to break up the quietness, 
like.” 

The boy was so apt in his mimicry of Giles that Squire 
Demaine gave out the frank, hearty bellow that did duty for 
a laugh. “ We’re all of the same mind, my lad. Thunder — 
or a straight, soon over fight — clears up one’s troubles.” 

“ Your encounter, father ? ” said Maurice, persistent in his 
curiosity. “Did you meet a spy of George’s, and kill him?” 

Sir Jasper looked at this younger-born of his, at the frank, 
open face and sturdy limbs. And then he thought, with that 
keen, recurrent stab of pain that had been bedfellow to him 
since first he knew his heir a weakling, of Rupert, left up at 


148 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Windyhough to guard a house that— so far as he could see 
just now — was in need of no defence. 

“ It was not — not just a spy of George’s I met,” he said, 
with a grave smile. “He may come to that one day. And 
I did not kill him, Maurice, though: I had the chance.” 

“Why, sir?” said Maurice, downright and wondering. 

“ Why ? God knows. We’d best be pushing forward.” 

At Windyhough, where the wind had piled a shroud of 
snow about the gables, they were thinking, all this time, that 
those who had ridden out were fortunate. As day by day 
went by, and Rupert found himself constantly alone in a 
house where only women and old men were left, he found it 
harder to stay at home, drilling the household to their separate 
parts in an attack whose likelihood grew more and more re- 
mote. 

Rupert, with a body not robust and a twisted ankle that 
was still in bandages, was holding fast to his allegiance. His 
mother, less pampered and less querulous, grew each day a 
more sacred trust. Each day, as she watched him go about the 
house, he surprised more constantly that look of the Madonna 
which stood out against the background of her pretty, faded 
face. He had something to defend at last, something that 
played tender, stifled chords about that keyboard which we 
call the soul. He was alone among the women and the old 
men; but he was resolute. 

And then there came a night when he had patrolled the 
house, had looked out through his window, before getting to 
bed, for a glance at the hilltops, white under a shrouded moon. 
He was tired, was seeking an answer to his faith. And, in- 
stead, a darkness came about him, a denial of all he had hoped 
for, prayed and striven for. Hope went by him. Trust in 
God grew dim and shadowy. There was no help, in this 
world or another, and he was a weak fool, as he had always 
been, drifting down the path of the east wind. 

He recalled, with pitiless clearness, how he had played 
eavesdropper before the Rising men rode out, had heard his 


THE ROAD TO THE THRONE 


149 


father say that no attack on Windyhough was possible, that 
the guns and ammunition were nursery toys he had left his 
heir to play with in his absence. 

Rupert — namesake of a cavalier whose name had never 
stood for wisdom, but always for high daring — stood with 
bowed shoulders, unmanned and desolate. He did not know 
that the wise, older men he reverenced were compelled to 
stand, time and time, as he was doing, with black night and 
negation at their elbow. He knew only that it was cold and 
dark, with no help at hand. It is moments such as this that 
divide true men from the feeble-hearted; and Rupert lifted 
his head, and, though he only half believed it, he told himself 
that dawn would follow this midwinter night. 

And that night he slept like a child, and dreamed that all 
was well. And he woke the next day to find Simon Foster 
watching by his bedside, patient and trusty as the dogs whose 
instinct is toward loyalty. 

“ You’ve slept, maister ! ” said Simon. “ By th’ Heart, I 
never saw a body sleep so sound.” 

“ We must patrol the house, Simon. The attack is com- 
ing — and we’ll not be late for it, after all these days of 
waiting.” 

“Who says the attack is coming?” growled the other. 

“ I dreamed it — the clearest dream I ever had, Simon.” 

But Simon shook his head. He had no faith in dreams. 


CHAPTER IX 


f 

THE STAY-AT-HOMES 

Winter is not always rough on the high moors of Lanca- 
shire. There are days when the wind creeps into hiding, 
and the sun comes up into a sky of blue and saffron, and 
the thrush begins to find his mating-note before its time. 
The gnats steal out from crannies in the walls, making pre- 
tence of a morris-dance along the slant rays of the sun; and 
everywhere there is a pleasant warmth and bustle, as if faith 
in this far-off summer, after all, had easily survived the east 
wind’s spite. 

It was on such a day — the breeze soft from the west, and 
Pendle Hill all crimson in the sunset — that Rupert limped 
out from Windy hough on the crutch that Simon Foster had 
made for him. He had gone his round of the house — that 
empty round performed for duty’s sake twice every day — and 
he was hungry for the smell of the open country. He hobbled 
up the pastures, as far as the rough lands where the moor 
and the intaken fields were fighting their old, unyielding 
battle — a feud as old as the day when the first heath-man 
drove his spade into the heather and began to win a scanty 
living from the wilderness for wife and bairns. 

Rupert, the dreamer, who had stood apart from life, had 
always found his sanctuary here, where the broken lands lay 
troubled, like himself, between the desert and the harvest. 
Instinct had led him here to-night, though weakness of body, 
never far from him, was trying once again to sap his courage. 

He looked across the moor, strong and comely in its win- 
ter nakedness. He watched a cock-grouse whirr across the 
crimson sun-rays. And then, with a sense of thanksgiving 
and security, he saw the round, stalwart bulk of Pendle Hill. 

150 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


151 


There is something about Pendle — a legacy from the far-off 
fathers, may be — that goes deep to the heart of Lancashire 
men. Its shape is not to be mistaken. It stands like a 
rounded watch-tower, guarding the moors where freedom and 
rough weather go hand in hand. It has seen many fights 
of men — feuds, and single-handed combats, and stealthy am- 
bushes — and has come, stalwart and upstanding, through 
weather that would have daunted meaner souls. It has 
the strong man’s gift of helping weaker men along the 
gallant, uphill climb that stretches from the cradle to the 
stars. 

Pendle Hill, big above the wilderness of bog and heath, 
never chatters of destiny, never tells a man that life is hard, 
that he had best be done with it, that all his striving has been 
so much useless labour. Pendle, the fairest citadel of Lan- 
cashire, has won through too many generations of cold and 
hardship to be daunted by the troubles of one man’s life- 
time. Rugged, round to the wide, wind-swept skies, old 
Pendle keeps the faith, and will not yield. 

Rupert had yet to win his spurs, he thought. And yet, 
as Pendle Hill viewed the matter, he had won them long 
ago. Day by day, year by year, through his unhappy and 
disastrous boyhood, the lad had come to the windy lands, for 
strength and solace. He had been loyal to the hills, .steadfast 
when stronger men had taken their ease. And to-night, be- 
cause it saw a soldier in the making, gruff Pendle sent out 
a welcome to Sir Jasper’s heir. 

“ God knows me for a fool,” said Rupert, afraid of the new 
message that had reached him. 

And there was stillness, while the sun’s red died behind 
the moor. No voice answered Rupert’s challenge to the 
over-world ; but, for all that, he limped down to Windyhough 
with a sense that all the birds were singing. Through the 
misery and darkness of these days he was reaching out, with 
stubborn gallantry, to grasp the forward hope. The forward 
hope! He had lived on little else since he was breeked. 


152 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


As he came down to Windyhough, he met Nance and old 
Simon Foster at the courtyard gate; Simon was carrying a 
musket, and polishing the barrel with his sleeve as he hobbled 
at the girl’s side. 

“ I’ve news for you, Rupert ! ” she said gaily. 

“Of the Rising?” He was eager, possessed of the one 
thought only. “Is trouble nearing Winldyhough? Nance, 
is there real work to be done at last ? ” 

“ Oh, my dear, you ask too much. Nothing ever happens 
at Windyhough; nothing will ever happen again, I think. 
We’re derelict, Rupert; the Highlandmen are playing their 
Prince into his kingdom by this time, and we ” — she grew 
bitter, petulant, for the silence and the waiting were sapping 
her buoyant health, her courage, her trust in high endeavour 
— “ and we in Lancashire are churning our butter every week, 
Rupert, and selling cows on market days, and dozing by the 
hearth. I am ashamed 

Simon Foster glanced sharply at Rupert. He knew the 
lad through and through, was prepared for the whiteness of 
his face, the withdrawal as if a friend had struck him wan- 
tonly. “ Miss Nance,” he said bluntly, “ shame is for folk 
that’s earned it. There’s three of us here, and we’d all be 
marching into London, if only it could have happened that 
way, like.” 

Nance would not look at Rupert, though she guessed how 
she had wounded him. She did not know this mood that had 
settled on her since coming to the draughty, loyal house of 
Windyhough. The long inaction, the waiting for news gath- 
ered from gruff, hard-ridden messengers, the day-long wish 
to be out in the thick of battle, had troubled her; but there 
was a deeper trouble — a trouble that was half delight, a tur- 
moil and unrest to which she could not give a name. And 
the trouble centred round Rupert. She liked him so well, 
had grown up with his queer, dreamy ways, his uncomplain- 
ing courage. 

She had laughed at him, had pitied him; but now she was 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


153 


pitying herself. If only he would remember that he was a 
man, the heir to a fine, loyal record — if only he would clear 
the cobwebs from his eyes, and sit a horse as other men did, 
would show the stuff his soul was made of, the world would 
understand him at long last. 

Nance was tired, her temper out of hand. “ Simon, you 
can go indoors,” she said dryly. “ Since you did not join 
the Rising — why, Lady Royd has work for you.” 

She did not know what she needed, or what ailed her. 
And she and Rupert stood in the courtyard after old Simon 
had gone in, fronting each other like wary duellists. 

“ What was your news ? ” asked Rupert, his temper brittle 
like her own. 

“ Oh, we set up a target, Simon and I ; and I practised 
with one of your clumsy muskets, Rupert, and wished that I 
had a bow-and-arrow in my hands instead. I have some skill 
in archery, have I not ? ” 

“ Yes. You’ve skill in all things, Nance. There’s no news 
in that.” 

“ And I aimed very ydde at first, till I turned and found 
Simon smiling as if he were watching a baby at its play. So 
then I kept him hard at work — loading, and priming, and the 
rest, and wasted a good deal of your ammunition, Rupert — 
but I learned to hit the target.” 

She spoke lightly, hurriedly, as if fearing to sound the 
depths of this trouble that had come between Rupert and 
herself. 

“Was it just to pass the time?” he asked by and by. 
“ You’re shut in here and restless, I know ” 

“ It was more, perhaps. We are so few, and I said just 
now that nothing would ever happen again at Windyhough — 
but the attack may come.” 

Rupert glanced at his crutch. He was sensitive, from long 
suffering, to the least hint that touched his personal infirmi- 
ties. “ And you could not trust your men to guard you ? ” 
he said sharply. “ That was your thought ? ” 


1 54 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Oh, Rupert, no ! I’m out of heart — I did not mean to 
hurt you.” 

“ You’ve not hurt me, Nance. I — I must find Simon and 
go the round of the house with him. We call it our drill.” 
He turned at the door, glanced at her with the smile of self- 
derision that she knew. “ Simon is right. He says that, if a 
man can’t go soldiering, the next best thing is to play at it, 
like a bairn with a wooden sword. Good-night, Nance. I’m 
tired, and shall get to bed after seeing to the defences.” 

Nance heard the delicate irony as he spoke of the defences, 
saw him limp into the house. And some new feeling came 
to her. It was not pity; it was a strange, fugitive pride in 
the courage that could keep so harassed a spirit under con- 
trol. She had been harsh and bitter, had wounded him be- 
cause she needed any outlet from, these pent-up days at 
Windyhough ; and he had gathered his little strength together, 
had laughed at himself, had gone to the routine of guarding 
a house that did not need defence. 

Nance was ashamed to-night. Her reliance and high 
spirits had deserted her; and for that reason she saw nearer 
to the heart of life. She felt that a great gentleman, marred 
in the making, had gone into this house of fine traditions. 
She asked, with an entreaty passionate and wilful as her- 
self, why Rupert had been condemned to sit at home among 
the women, when so little more was needed to shape him to 
the comely likeness of a man. 

And then she thought of Will Underwood, who had 
strength and grace of body, remembered with obstinate zeal 
her faith that he had ridden on some desperate business of 
the Rising, though men doubted him. And she was in the 
turmoil of first love again. 

The next day, and the next, she missed Rupert from the 
house. He would go his rounds punctiliously after break- 
fast, and then would take a crust and a piece of cheese in his 
pocket and limp up into the hills. She thought that he was 
feeding his dreams, as of old, on the high winds and the 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


155 


high legends of the heath ; and she missed him, with a sense 
of loneliness that would not let her rest. 

Simon Foster, too, was absent these days, and Lady Royd 
grew petulant. Though her husband was like to lose his 
head, and England was stirred by that throb of coming battle 
which is like thunder-heat before the rain and lightning come, 
she was troubled because Simon did not perform his indoor 
duties. For she, who had little guidance of herself, and 
therefore less control of serving-folk, was exact in her de- 
mand that all the details of the house should be well-ordered. 

“ I thought Simon at least tied by rheumatism to the 
house,” she wailed to Nance, on the second day of absence; 
“ but he’s like all our men — off to the Rising, or off to the 
fields ; any excuse will serve, it seems, when women feel their 
indoor loneliness.” 

And Nance, though her impulse was to laugh, was sub- 
dued by those blundering, poignant words, “ their indoor 
loneliness.” Nance was a child of the open fields, meeting 
all chances of life better in the free wind than in the stifled 
houses. Not until her coming to Windyhough had she un- 
derstood the heartache, the repression, summed up by “ their 
indoor loneliness.” A fierce resentment took hold of her. 

“ Men have all the pleasure,” she said, in a low, hard voice. 
“ It was so always.” 

She would have been the better for a glimpse of the 
Prince’s tattered army, fighting through sleet and mud and 
jealousy for the privilege of setting a Stuart on the throne. 
But Nance was young and untried yet, and thought herself 
ill-used because she had a roof above her. 

And then Rupert came in, with Simon Foster close behind 
him. 

“ You’ve been at the ale-house, Simon,” said Lady Royd 
shrewishly. 

“ No, by your leave. I’ve been on the King’s business, 
and other needs must wait, my lady. So I was taught, least- 
ways, when I was a bairn at my father’s knee.” 


156 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ What is the mystery, Rupert?” asked Nance, after Simon 
had grumbled his way toward the servants’ quarters. 

“ Mystery? None, my dear, except that I’m tired to death, 
and have the round of the house to go before I get to bed.” 

He spoke the truth. Mystery there was none, except that 
out of his great love for her he was learning many lessons. 
And she tempted him, meanwhile, to tell her what this busi- 
ness was that had taken Simon and himself to the open fields ; 
but he gave no answer. 

And that evening passed, as many another had done, with 
a monotony that seemed to tick the seconds out, deliberate as 
the eight-day clock in the hall— a passionless, grave clock that 
had seen many generations of the Royds go through their 
hot youth, their fiery middle-age, their last surrender — sur- 
render honourable, upright, staunch in the last hour, to that 
great general, Death, who has taken more citadels than any 
human hero of renown. 

The eight-day clock knew that life was not meant to be 
taken at the gallop, each moment packed with ambush, high 
romance, fine-spoken wooing that could not outlast the honey- 
moon. It knew that fine deeds — big moments when the 
heart finds room to know itself — are earned by steady prepara- 
tion, ticked out by the slow-moving seconds. But Nance 
had all this to learn as yet, and this evening, of all evenings 
she had spent at Windyhough, seemed the longest and the 
dreariest. And my lady’s little spaniel — a nervous, unlicked 
lap-dog — annoyed her beyond reason. 

Lady Royd was full of dread and surmise. First, she 
heard a mouse gnawing at the wainscoting, and fell into a 
panic obviously real. Then a farm-dog began to yelp and 
whimper from the stables, and she was sure it foretold dis- 
aster to her husband. 

“ It was so foolish of him,” she said, “ to go on this wild 
Rising. He had all to keep him here — his wife and his two 
sons and the house he loved, and the hunting in the winter. 
Why did he leave it all? He had all to keep him, Nance.” 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


157 

Because she was tired and heart-sick, perhaps, Nance spoke 
with a wisdom not her own ; for at these times we do not lash 
instinct to the gallop, but let it carry us like a sure-footed 
horse. “ Except his heart. It was his heart that took him 
south.” 

“ But his heart was here, my girl,” put in the other, with 
sudden spirit. She had been moved to terror by the sound 
of a mouse in the wainscoting; but she was fierce in her de- 
fence of the love her goodman bore her. 

“ No,” said Nance gently, as if she persuaded a child to 
learn some obvious and simple lesson, “ his heart could not be 
here until he had answered the call of honour.” 

“ Oh, spare me ! ” sighed the other languidly. “ Honour is 
so pretty a thing — like a rapier, or a Frenchman’s wit — when 
they sing of it in ballads. But in practice it is like getting up 
at sunrise to see the poet’s dawn — so chilly and uncomfortable, 
Nance.” 

“What else?” said Nance, her head thrown up with a sud- 
den, eager gesture that was vastly like her father’s. “ Honour 
rusts, my lady, if it stays always in the scabbard. Discom- 
fort? I think honour — Sir Jasper’s and my father’s — feeds 
on discomfort, thrives on it ” 

“ But Sir Jasper, what more did he need? He can find no 
more if he returns — no more than he left behind when he went 
on this wild-goose chase. I shall be waiting for him — the wife 
who loves him, no more, no less ” 

“ Is there a boundary-wall round love, then?” asked Nance, 
with eyes wide open and astonished. “ I’m young and fanci- 
ful, perhaps. I thought love was a thing that found wider 
fields to travel every hour; that, each day one’s man 
came home with honour, one cared for him ever a little 
the more, and knighted him afresh. For it is knighthood, 
surely, a true man asks always from the woman of his 
choice.” 

Lady Royd fingered her scent-bottle, and laughed vaguely, 
enjoying the girl’s transparent honesty. “ It all has a roman- 


158 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


tic sound, Nance. Did you learn it from books, as poor 
Rupert learned his soldiery?” 

The taunt stung Nance, because she had hoped, with odd 
persistency, that Rupert would come in, after going his round 
of the house, to ask her to sing to him. And he had not come ; 
and she had tender songs enough in readiness, for she remem- 
bered how wantonly she had hurt him not long ago. 

“ Where did you learn it, girl ? ” insisted Lady Royd, with 
tired irony. “ I’m past the age of glamour — and half regret 
it — and you may recapture for me all the fragment silliness. 
Nance, believe me, I cannot make a satisfying meal of dew- 
drops. I must be getting old, for I grow fonder and fonder 
of my cook, who sends substantial rations from the kitchen.” 

So then Nance, hot-headed, resentful, not guessing that she 
was being gently baited to while away an hour’s boredom from 
her companion — Nance stood to 'her little, queenly height. 
And her eyes were beautiful, because her eagerness shone 
through them. And she tapped her buckled slipper on the 
beeswaxed floor, as if she were impatient to be dancing with 
true men, or dying with them along the road that Sir Jasper 
and his friends had sought. 

“ I learned it — as Rupert learned his soldiery, I think — not 
from books at all, my lady. It was my heart taught me, or 
my soul, or what you choose to name that something which is 
— is bigger, somehow, than one’s self. Honour — I cannot tell 
you the keen, sharp strength, the sweetness and the pity the 
word spells for me. It is like the swords my father is so 
fond of — bright and slim, like toys to look at; but you can 
bend them till point touches hilt and yet not break them. And 
you can ride out and cleave a way with these same words.” 

Lady Royd was no cynic now. The peril and discomfort 
of the times had been opening closed windows for her, as 
for others who lived near this wind-swept hearth. By stealth, 
and fearing much, she had peered out through these unshut- 
tered casements; and Nance was speaking outright of the 
fugitive, dim thoughts that she herself had harboured. 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


159 


“ Go, my dear,” she said gently. “ You’ve the voice you 
sing, with — the voice that Rupert praises. Go, sing to me 
again of — of love and honour, child.” 

Nance flushed. She scarcely knew what she had said. “ I 
do not need,” she said, with instinctive grace and dignity. 
“ You know so much of them, and I so little ; and I am sorry 
if — if I spoke in haste. I am so tired, and I forget the — the 
deference owing to your years.” 

So then, because they stood very near each other for this 
moment, and because she feared intimacy just yet with the 
simple, happy glimpse of life that Nance had shown her, Sir 
Jasper’s wife drew her skirts about her and picked up the 
yapping, pampered thing she called a dog and kissed its nose. 
It was her signal for good-night. 

“ A woman likes deference, my dear,” she said sharply, 
“ deference of all kinds, except that owing to — to advancing 
years. You sang out of tune there, Nance. Never to be 
made love to again; never again, so long as one’s little world 
lasts, to catch the glance, the little broken word of tribute — 
things that do not wrong one’s husband, Nance, but add a spice 
to the workaday, quiet road of love for him; they’re hard to 
give up, my dear.” 

Nance looked at her with frank surprise. She was strong 
and untried yet; and Lady Royd was frail, but experienced 
so far as indolence allowed. And there was a deep gulf be- 
tween them. 

“ I will take my candle up,” said Nance lamely. 

“ Yes, and sleep well, child. Dream of — oh, of love and 
honour and the foolish rosemary of life. And come sing to 
me to-morrow — of the things you’ve dreamed. Perhaps I 
spoke at random, Nance. I’m widowed of my husband; and 
this Rising never wore a lucky face to me — and — my temper 
is not gentle, Nance, I know.” 

That night there were few who slept at Windyhough. Sir 
Jasper’s wife, alone with the wind that rattled at her window, 
made no disguise of the love that beat, strong and trusty, un- 


160 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


derneath her follies. Despite herself, she had come out at 
last into the road of life — the road of mire and jealousies and 
tragedy, lit far ahead by the single lamp of honour, for those 
whose eyes were trained to see it. 

“ I’m not worthy of him,” she moaned, drawing the sleepy 
spaniel toward her. “ My husband climbs the bigger hills, 
while I — am weak, as Rupert is.” 

Nance, too, lay awake. She was busy with what Lady Royd 
had named the rosemary of life. All her instincts rose in warm 
defence of that view of honour which Sir Jasper’s wife had 
slighted. And there were men, men in their own midst, who 
could love in the old knightly way. There was Will Under- 
wood — and so she lost herself, half between waking and 
dreaming, in a maze of high perfection that she reared about 
his person. Of a truth Wild Will was in danger, had he 
known it. He had pressed his suit on Nance, had urged it, 
in and out of season, during the months that preceded this up- 
set of the Rising. He had captured her fancy already, and her 
heart might follow any day; but he did not. guess what sim- 
plicity and breadth of tenderness she would bring him, what 
answering devotion she would ask. Nance had the double 
gift — she had the woman’s instincts, the woman’s suppleness of 
fancy, but she had been reared in a house where a big, down- 
right father and big, uncompromising brothers had trained her 
to the man’s code of life. She would never come to the 
wooing as to a one-sided bargain, giving all meekly and 
asking nothing in return. She would ask, with tenderest 
persistence, that her man, as she had said to Lady Royd, 
should claim knighthood at her hands once every while. 
Marriage, to her unproved heart,, was a thing magical, re- 
newing its romance each day — but renewing, too, that every- 
day and hard endeavour on which the true romance is founded. 

And so she got to sleep at last, and woke in terror. She 
had dreamed that Will Underwood, engaged in a single- 
handed fight against a company of the Prince’s enemies, lay 
wounded sorely; and she had reached out hands, impotent 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


161 


with nightmare, to succour him, and she had seen him fall. 

At the end of the long, draughty corridor, not many yards 
away from her, Rupert was fighting his new trouble. He and 
Simon had been engaged on the King’s business — or the pre- 
tence of it — during these excursions that had taken them 
afield for two days past. But he could only remember now 
what had driven him into endeavour — how he had come home 
to find Nance flushed and eager, Simon carrying a couple 
of muskets; and how, she had told him,, in plain words, that 
women must needs take up soldiery, because the men about 
the house were so infirm. 

Since his soul was launched into the open sea of life, Ru- 
pert had known many a Gethsemane, but the pain had never 
been so keen as now. His love for Nance was of the kind she 
claimed, but his power to do high deeds lagged far behind 
the will to be a conqueror. And Nance, who had always 
brought a sense of well-being and of inspiration to him, had 
wounded him — mortally, he thought. Sir Jasper had bidden 
him guard the house, and he had overheard his father say 
that the defence was a toy he left his heir to play with ; and 
the bitterness of that was past, not without hardship and a 
struggle that, fought out in loneliness, was fine as a battle 
against heavy odds. That was past, but Nance’s taunt was 
with him still, a sting that banished sleep and poisoned all 
his outlook on the hills where Faith, crowned and a strong 
monarch, looks down to see into the hearts of men and 
choose her soldiers. 

Old Simon Foster, for his part, had not slept well to-night. 
As he put it to himself, he “ was never one to miss sleep or 
victuals, come peace or earthquakes ” ; but to-night he could 
not rest. He was with the master, fighting somewhere near 
to that London which was a far-off land to him, unknown 
and perilous, as if wide seas divided it from Lancashire. And 
he was itching to be out of a house where the mistress could 
still be anxious lest her spaniel missed his proper meals, 
where, to his fancy, women crowded all the passages and 


162 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


hindered him at every turn. Simon was twisted out of shape 
by exposure and harsh, rheumatic pains, but he was sick to 
be out again with the wind and the weather that had crippled 
him. 

Simon Foster, too infirm to go with his master to the 
wars, was ill-tempered these days, as a grey old hound is 
when he sees the whelps of his own fathering go out to 
hunting while he is left at home. He was in and out of the 
house, till the women-servants grew tired of his grim, 
weather-beaten face. Only Martha put in a good word for 
him — Martha who, at five-and-thirty, had not found a mate, 
though she would have made a good wife to any man. Simon 
was barely turned fifty, she said, and was hale enough “ if 
rheumatiz would only let him bide in peace.” And when a 
prim maid-of-all-work had suggested that bent legs tempted 
no maid’s fancy, Martha had answered hotly that the shape 
of a man’s heart mattered more than any casual infirmity 
attaching to his legs. 

He got up this morning, two hours before the wintry 
dawn came red and buoyant over Pendle Hill, for he could 
not rest indoors. He went to the stables, his lantern swing- 
ing crazily in his gnarled hands, and roused the horses from 
the slumber that is never sleep, because men ask so much 
of them at all hours of the day and night, and patted them, as 
a father touches his bairns — gently, with a sort of benedic- 
tion. For the smell of a horse to Simon was vastly com- 
forting. 

He came to an old, fiddle-headed nag that had been a pen- 
sioner at Windyhough these many years, and stayed and 
chatted with him with the ease that comes of long comrade- 
ship. 

“ We’re in the same plight, lad,” he growled — “ old, and 
left at home, the two of us. Ay, we’re thrown on the lum- 
ber-heap, I reckon.” 

He went out by and by ; and his face cleared suddenly like 
wintry sunlight creeping over a grey stubble-field, as he saw 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


163 


Martha cross from the mistals with a milking-pail over each 
well-rounded arm. And, because there seemed little else to 
to, he stopped to praise the trim shape of her. 

“ And your cheeks, Martha,” he added, after a pause — 
“ there’s some warm wind been at ’em, or they’d never look 
so bonnie.” 

“ Winds blow cold up hereabout,” said Martha demurely, 
setting down her pails. “ And my cheeks are my own, Simon 
Foster, by your leave.” 

Simon had known this game of give-and-take with a lass 
in the days before he grew harder and more keen on battle. 
He returned now with ease to habits forsworn until the 
Rising left him derelict among the women. 

Nay, but they’re not, as the bee said to the clover.” 

“ For shame, Simon — and at your age, too!” 

“ At my age ! I’d teach ye I’m young if rheumatiz was 
not like a. hive o’ bees about me.” 

She twisted a corner of her apron, half hid her face with 
it ; and Simon admitted to himself that the brown eyes looking 
into his “ might be tempting, like, to a younger lad than me.” 

“ At my age a man’s just beginning to know women,” he 
said persuasively. “ It takes a long ’prenticeship, Martha. 
You can learn to break in a horse, or do smithy work, or 
aught useful like, in a lile few years. But to learn the way 
of a woman — durned if it isn’t a long job and a tough job, 
Martha.” 

“We’re very simple, if you men weren’t blind as bats at 
mid-day.” 

“ Oh, ay ; you’re simple ! ” put in Simon, with a quiet 
chuckle. “ Simple as driving sows to market.” 

So then Martha put a hand to each of her milking-pails. 
“ I’d best be getting on with my work. If you’re likening 
me to a sow ” 

“There, there! It wasn’t you lass; it was women not 
just so bonnie — the most part o’ women, I mean.” 

Martha lingered. The deft flattery had pleased her, and 


164 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


she was willing to surrender any casual defence of her own 
sex. “ Well, the most part o’ women, Simon, they’re feather- 
witted maybe. I’ll own as much.” 

“ And like sows,” went on the other, with patient explana- 
tion of his theme. “ A man chooses his straight road and 
sticks to it, but a sow, when you want to get her Lunnon 
way, why, you’ve just to twist her by the tail, backward fore- 
most, and pretend you want her to head straight for Scot- 
land.” 

They eyed each other with a large, impassive silence. 
There was plenty of leisure these days at Windyhough, too 
much of it; and Simon found it pleasant to watch Martha’s 
wholesome, wind-sweet face, to hear the voice that seemed 
made for singing to the kine while she sat at the milking- 
pail. And Martha, for her part, had never known a wooing, 
and the prime hunger of her life still went unsatisfied. 

“ Human nature — it’s a queer matter,” said Simon by and 
by. 

“ And there’s a deal of it about,” sighed Martha. “ Hu- 
man nature — soon as ever a body can get away from moil 
and toil and begin to think, like — why, it’s just made up o’ 
things we haven’t got, Simon. And if we’d got them we 
shouldn’t care so much for ’em, and so it’s all a round o’ 
foolishness, like a donkey treading at the mill-wheel.” 

A tear fell down on to Martha’s hand, and, because the 
grief was come by honestly, Simon felt an odd impulse stirring 
him. “ Martha, my lass, I wish I was a good twenty years 
younger. If I were forty, now, and you ” 

“ I’m nearing forty, Simon. We’ll not talk of ages, by 
your leave.” 

Simon walked up and down the yard, in a mood that was 
half between panic and something worthier. Then he came 
to Martha’s side. “ I’ve a mind to kiss you,” he said. 

“ Well, I’m busy,” said Martha ; “ but I might happen spare 
time.” 

And so they plighted troth. And Simon, when at last 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


165 


he went indoors to get about the duties Lady Royd found for 
him, was astonished that he had no qualms. He had given 
his promise, and knew that, as a man of his word, he would 
keep it. All old instincts whispered that he had been “ varry 
rash to tie himself in a halter in that fool’s fashion ” ; and yet 
he felt only like a lad who goes whistling to help his lass 
bring in the kine to byre. 

As he reached the house, Nance, in her riding-habit, 
stepped out into the courtyard. Tired of her restless dreams, 
weary to death of the inaction and misery at Windyhough, 
she had stolen out of the house like a thief, afraid lest Lady 
Royd should need her before she made good her escape. She 
flushed guiltily even at this meeting with Simon, as if he had 
detected her in wrong-doing, though her longing for a gallop 
was innocent enough. 

“You’re for riding on horseback, Miss Nance?” he asked, 
by way of giving her good-day. 

“ Yes, Simon. I shall die if I spend another day indoors. 
It is like being wrapped in cotton-wool.” 

“Well, now, you’re right! I’ve just been to the stables 
myself,” he added dryly, “ and you’ve the pick of three rare 
stay-at-homes to choose from. One’s broken-winded, and 
one’s spavined, and t’other’s lame in the off hind-leg. 
There’s a fine choice for you ! ” 

“ Which of the three shall I choose ? ” laughed Nance. 

“ Oh, I’d take the broken-winded one, with the head like 
Timothy Wade’s bass-viol that he plays i’ church. He’s a lot 
o’ fire in him yet — if you don’t mind him roaring like a 
half-gale under you. I was talking to him just now — telling 
him the oldsters had as much pluck in ’em as the youngsters. 
It was a shame, I said, to leave such spirited folk as him and 
me behind.” 

Nance gave him a friendly smile — he had always been a 
favourite of hers, by force of his tough, homespun strength 
and honesty — and crossed the yard. The stablemen and 
grooms were off with Sir Jasper to the wars — all save two 


166 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


were past seventy, and who were warming themselves in- 
doors before facing the nipping wind. She found the three 
horses left, like the stablemen, because of age and infirmity, 
and helped Simon, with a quickness she had learned in child- 
hood, to saddle the fiddle-headed beast that he had recom- 
mended. 

The beast had been eating his head off, and was almost 
youthful in caprice and eagerness as Nance rode him up 
into the moors. He had watched his comrades go out a 
week ago — mettled youngsters, neighing with wide nos- 
trils from sheer lust of adventure — and he had been left to 
eat more corn than was good for him, left to think back along 
the years when men had needed him to carry the burden of 
their hopes. 

The horse knew, perhaps, that Nance, like himself, was 
seeking respite from indolence and the companionship of 
ailing folk. He carried her bravely, and disguised from her 
for a while, with a certain chivalry, the fact that he was 
broken-winded. When they came to the moor, however, the 
smell of the marshes and the ling seemed to get to his head, 
like too much wine ; and twice he all but unseated Nance, who 
was thinking of Will Underwood, riding south like her 
father into that perilous country where George the Second 
was seated on a stolen throne. 

The horse, after his display of youthfulness, was content 
to laze up and down the sheep-tracks of the heath; and even 
Nance, blind as she was by habit to the failings of her com- 
rades, was aware that he was roaring now like a half-gale 
from the north. 

Then she forgot the horse, forgot the languid mother, the 
weakling heir, down yonder at the bleak house of Windy- 
hough. Her thoughts returned to her father, to Sir Jasper, 
to gentle and simple of the Lancashire men who had ridden 
out against long odds. Last of all, her maidenly reserve 
broke down, and she knew that she was eager for Will Un- 
derwood’s safety. She saw him so clearly — fearless, a keen 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


167 


rider after hounds, a man who sought danger and coveted 
it. Surely he was made for such reckless battles as were 
coming. Through her anxieties, through her womanish pic- 
turing of the wounds and sickness that were lying in wait 
along this high-road that led south to victory and the Stuart, 
she was glad that “ Wild Will ” would need her prayers, her 
trust in him. 

She rode slowly up by way of Hangman’s Snout — a bluff, 
round hill that once had carried a gallows-tree. Line by 
swarthy line the heath widened out before her as she climbed. 
Crumpled hillocks, flat wastes of peat, acre after acre of dead 
bracken intermixed with ling and benty grasses, swept out 
and up to the sky that was big with sunrise and with storm. 
The wind blew cold and shrill, and all was empty loneliness; 
but to Nance it seemed that she was in a friendly land, where 
she was free to breathe. They would not let her fight for 
the true cause ; she had no skill in arms ; but here, on the 
naked, friendly heath, she was free at least to grasp the mean- 
ing of that stormy hardship which her folk had been content 
to undergo. 

There was Sir Jasper — her father, and many who had 
ridden out from the Loyal Meet at Windyhough under her 
own eyes — and all of them had seemed instinct with this 
large, stormy air that lay above the moors. She was girlish 
yet, healthy and in need of pleasure ; and she had wondered, 
seeing these men ride from Windyhough, that they were so 
grave about the matter, intent and quiet, as if they went to 
kirk instead of to the wars. Like Rupert, she had pictured 
the scene in more vivid colours, had been impatient that no 
music of the pipes, no rousing cheers had gone to the fare- 
well. She had longed for the strong lights and shades of 
drama, and had found instead a workaday company of gentle- 
men who rode about their business and made no boast of it. 

Here on the wintry heights she looked life in the face to- 
day. These men who had ridden out— Sir Jasper turning 
only at the last moment to kiss his wife, though he was deep 


168 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


in love with her at the end of many years — had been rugged 
and silent as the hills that had nursed their strength and 
loyalty. 

Nance was not herself just now. The superstitious would 
have said that she was “ seeing far.” And so she was — far 
as the red sunrise-glow that reached up to heaven. She and 
the moors, between them, struck sparks of vivid faith from 
the winter’s barrenness and hardship. She was sure that 
summer would return, fragrant with the scent of Stuart 
roses. 

They had reached the top of Hangman’s Snout, she and 
her broken-winded horse. And suddenly a doubt came 
blowing down the breeze to her. Will Underwood had been 
absent from the Loyal Meet. She was aware that men 
doubted him in some subtle manner that did not need words 
to explain its meaning. He was popular, in a haphazard 
way, with his own kind; but always, as Nance looked back 
along the years, there was a suggestion that he was happier 
among the women, because he had the gift of fooling them. 
And yet men admitted that he was a good companion in all 
field-sports — and yet again Nance remembered how, not long 
ago, she had overheard her father talking with Oliphant of 
Muirhouse, when they did not guess that she was within 
earshot. 

“ Will Underwood will join us,” Squire Roger had said, 
with the testiness of a man who only half believes his own 
words. “ He takes any fence that comes.” 

“ Yes,” Oliphant had broken in, with the dry smile of one 
who knew his world. “ Yes, he can gallop well. Can he 
stand a siege, though ? ” 

"A siege?” 

“ There’s not always a game fox in front, Squire — and 
hounds running with a fine, full-throated cry. I’m on the 
other side o’ life myself — the long night rides, when a man 
would barter all for one clean fight in open daylight. Under- 
wood will not find this march such a gallop. Horse and foot 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 169 

go together, and the roads are vile. Can he last, Squire, 
crawling at a foot pace ? ” 

Nance remembered the very tone of Oliphant’s voice — the 
dry, sharp challenge in it, as of one who had learned to sum 
up a man’s character quickly. It was her own judgment of 
Will Underwood, though 1 warm liking for him — his bigness 
and his way of taking fences — had stifled half her healthy 
common sense. 

She checked her horse, looked out across this land of win- 
try nakedness. It was here on the uplands that she had let 
Underwood steal into her friendship, here that her quick 
need for romance had shaped him to the likeness of a gentle- 
man — gallant, debonair, a man to count on whether peace or 
war were in the doing. 

Something of the wind’s free-roving heedlessness took hold 
of her. She was free to choose her man, free to be loyal to 
her heart and let her judgment go. 

She looked down the slope. A horseman came suddenly 
into view, riding up the trough of the hills. She checked her 
horse, with a sharp, instinctive cry. The superstitions of the 
moor, bred in its lonely marshes and voiced by its high priests, 
the curlews and the plover, crept round her like the hill- 
mists that bewilder human judgment. Will Underwood was 
away with the Stuart, riding south to London and the Res- 
toration; yet he was coming up to meet her, over the slopes 
which they had crossed together on many a hunting-day. 

She watched him, climb the slope. There was no mistak- 
ing the dashing, handsome figure, the way he had of sitting 
a horse ; and the wide emptiness of the heath, its savage loneli- 
ness, seemed only to make bigger this intruder who rode up 
into its silence. 

The old, unconquerable legends of the moor returned to 
Nance. Her nurse had taught her, long ago, what such 
apparitions meant. The dead were allowed to return to those 
they loved, for the brief hour before the soul, half between 
heaven and earth, took its 'last departure. 


170 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


She watched the horseman ride nearer, nearer. And sud- 
denly she broke into a flood of tears. He had died in battle — 
had died for the Stuart — and was riding up, a ghostly horse- 
man on a phantom steed, to tell her of it. He had died well 
— yes — but she would miss him in the coming years. She 
would miss him 

Again she thought of Rupert. All his life the Scholar 
had been struggling against impotence and misery. He had 
grown used to it by habit; and, of all her friends, she longed 
most to have him by her side, because he would understand this 
trouble that unsteadied her. 

Will Underwood’s wraith came up and up the track. She 
drooped in the saddle of the broken-winded horse, and hid her 
eyes, and waited for the kiss, cold as an east wind over the 
marshes, that would tell her he was loyal in the dying. The 
tales of nursery days were very close about her now, and she 
was a child who walked in the unknown. 

“ Why, Nance, what the devil is amiss? You’re crying like 
a burn in spate.” 

Will’s voice was sharp and human. Nance reined back a 
pace or two. They were so near, so big, Will and his horse, 
that they shattered her nursery tales with bewildering rough- 
ness. 

For a while she could not speak, could not check the sobs 
which were a tribute, not to the living man but to his wraith. 
Then she gathered up her strength, for she came of a plucky 
stock. Will Underwood was good at reading women’s 
faces; it was his trade in life; but he could make nothing of 
Nance just now. Her glance was searching, her eyes quiet 
and hard, though tears were lying on her lashes still. All 
her world had slipped from under her. There seemed no 
longer any trust, or faith, or happiness in the bleak years to 
come; but at least she had her pride. 

“ Nance, what is it?” he asked. 

“ I thought you a ghost just now, Mr. Underwood — the 
ghost of your better self, may be. And now ” 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


171 


“Well, and now?” he broke in, with the hardy self-assur- 
ance that had served him well in days gone by. “ I’m alive, 
and entirely at your service, Nance. Surely there’s no occa- 
sion for distress in that.” 

She looked gravely at him for a moment, with clear eyes 
that seemed to glance through and beyond him, as if his hand- 
some body and his strength had disappeared, leaving only a 
puff of unsubstantial wind behind. 

“ There is occasion,” she said, very gravely and in a voice 
that was musical with pain and steadfastness. “ You had 
better be lying dead, Mr. Underwood, along some road of 
loyalty, than — than be idling here, when other men are fight- 
ing.” 

He reddened, seemed at a loss for words. Then, “ Nance, 
what a child you are — and I fancied you a woman grown,” 
he said, with an attempt at playfulness. “ What is this Ris- 
ing, after all? A few Scots ragamuffins following a laddie 
with yellow hair and flyaway wits. Let the women sing bal- 
lads, and dream dreams; but level-headed men don’t risk all 
on moonshine of that sort.” 

“ My father — he is older than you, and is counted — more 
level-headed, shall we say? Sir Jasper Royd, too, is a soldier 
whose record all men know. They have gone with the raga- 
muffins and the yellow-haired laddie.” 

Underwood was startled by the quiet irony, the security, that 
were instinct in the girl’s voice, her bearing. She was not 
the wayward, pleasure-loving Nance he had known ; she stood, 
in some odd way, for all the pride and all the resolution of 
her race. He had earned his title of “ Wild Will ” by taking 
fences which men more sensitively built refused to hazard, 
and by more doubtful exploits which were laughed at and 
avoided by the cleaner sort among his comrades. He/ was 
good to look at, gay and dominant; yet never, to his life’s 
end, would he lay hold of the subtle meaning which those 
of an old race attach to that one word “ loyalty.” It was not 
his fault that his father had been of slight account, except for 


172 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


a gift of money-making; but he had not cared to learn the 
lessons which the second generation must, if it wished to lay 
hold of old tradition and make itself a home among the great- 
hearted, simple gentlemen of Lancashire. 

He and Nance were alone here on the uplands. A ragged, 
crimson sunset lingered over the moor. A cock-grouse got 
up from the heather on their right, and whirred down the 
bitter wind, chuckling harshly as it went. It was a man’s 
land, this, full of hills that stepped, sleety and austere, to the 
red of the stormy sky. A man should have been easily the 
master here ; and yet Underwood knew that he was dwarfed, 
belittled, by this slim lass of Demaine’s, whose eyes held truth 
and looked him through and through. 

“Your excuse, Mr. Underwood?” asked Nance, in a tone 
as wintry as the hills. 

He should have known, from the quiet and hungry long- 
ing in her face, from the shiver that took her unawares, 
though the wind’s cold had no part in it, how eagerly she 
waited for his answer. He had shared her dreams. He had 
captured a liking that was very near to love; and she was 
defending the last ditch of her faith in him. If he could 
make amends, even now — and surely he must, he who was so 
big and strong — if he could give her one sudden, inspired 
word that would unravel all the tangle — she was ready to 
believe in him. 

Instead, Will laughed like a country hobble-dehoy. “ My 
excuse — why, prudence, Nance; and prudence, they say, is a 
quiet mare to ride or drive at all times. I’ll join your Rising 
when there’s a better chance of its success. There were few 
rode out from Lancashire, after all ; I’ve met many a stay-at- 
home good fellow already since I returned from the business 
that took me south.” 

He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. 
Her tone, her contemptuous air of question, had stung him. 
Until now he had assumed the manners worn by these people 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


173 


into whose midst his father had intruded, had carried lip- 
service to the Stuart passably enough, had won his way by 
conformity to the letter of their deep traditions. And here 
and now, on the moor that would have none of lies, he had 
plucked the mask aside, so that Nance shrank back a little in 
the saddle, afraid of the meanness in his face. 

There was a silence, broken only by the wind’s fret, by the 
ripple of a neighbouring stream whose floods were racing 
banktop high. With sharp insistence, one memory came to 
Nance. She recalled how, weeks ago, she had left Rupert 
and his brother to their fight, had ridden down to Demaine 
House with Will, had found her father eager as a boy because 
Oliphant of Muirhouse had brought news of the Rising. 
She recalled, too, how Underwood had seemed cold, how he 
had followed her out into the hall and answered her distrust 
of him. And she had listened to his pleading — had bidden 
him come before the month was out, if he were leal — if he 
were leal. 

The moor, and the frost that made rose-pink and amber of 
the sunset sky, were very cold to Nance just now. If she 
had felt distrust of this big, loose-built rtiffler, she had been 
willing enough to let first love cover up her doubts. She had 
cared for what he might have been, and had been concerned 
each day to hide the traces of what, in sober fact, he was. 
For a moment it seemed to her that pride, and strength, and 
all, had left her. It was hard and bitter to know that some- 
thing warmer, gayer than she had known as yet, had gone 
from her, not to return. 

Then courage came to her again, borrowed from the hard- 
riding days that had fathered many generations of her race. 
“ Mr. Underwood,” she said, not looking at him, “ you picked 
up my kerchief not long ago — do you remember? — and asked 
to keep it.” 

Even now he could not rid himself of the easy hunting 
days, the easy conquests, which had built up a wall of self- 


174 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


security about him. “ You’ll give it me before the month 
is out, Nance? You promised it,” he said, edging his horse 
nearer hers. 

Nance took a kerchief from the pocket of her riding-coat. 
“ Why, yes,” she said, “ I keep my word. You may claim it.” 

He took it, put it to his lips, all with the over-done effront- 
ery of a groom who finds the master’s daughter stooping 
to him. “ I shall keep it,” he said — “ until the next true 
Rising comes.” 

“ Yes,” said Nance submissively. “ You may keep it, Mr. 
Underwood.” 

“ Nay, call me Will ! ” he blundered on. “ Listen, Nance. 
When I spoke of prudence just now, I — I lied. You stung 
me into saying what I did not mean. There were reasons 
kept me here. You’ll believe me, surely? Urgent reasons. 
And here I am, eating my heart out while other men are tak- 
ing happy risks.” 

Nance glanced once at him. His voice was persuasive as of 
old ; he had the same easy seat in saddle, the handsome, dash- 
away figure that had given him a certain romantic place of 
his own among his intimates ; but there was something new. 
She understood, with sudden humiliation and self-pity, how 
slight a thing first love may be. And, because he had forced 
this knowledge on her, she would not spare him. 

“ You may keep it,” she repeated. “ The enemy may 
come to Windyhough, and you will need a flag of truce, as 
the old men and the disabled will — and my kerchief — it will 
serve as well as another.” 

She was alone with him, here on the empty moor, and had 
only a broken-winded horse to help her if need asked. Yet 
her disdain of him was so complete, her humiliation so bitter, 
that she had no fear. She spoke slowly, quietly; and Under- 
wood reined his horse back a little, as if she had struck him 
with her riding-whip. 

“ All this because I’ll not risk my head for a wild-cat plot 
to put a Stuart on the throne?” 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


175 


“ Oh, not for that reason. Because you promised to risk 
your head; because, in time of peace, you persuaded loyal 
gentlemen that you were one of them ; because, Mr. Under- 
wood, you ran away before you had ever seen the enemy.” 

Nance’s one desire was to hurt this man, to get through 
his armour of good living and complacency; it was her way 
— the woman’s way — of digging a grave in which to hide the 
first love that was dead, unlovely, pitiful. 

“ Well, we hunted yesterday,” said the other doggedly. 
“ There were plenty of Lancashire gentlemen in my own case 
— our heads sounder than our hearts — and we had fine sport. 
And, coming home — you’ll forgive me — we laughed at Sir 
Jasper and his handful of enthusiasts. We like them — we 
shall miss them when they’re gibbeted in London — but we 
laughed at their old-fashioned view of honour. Honour trims 
pretty rosettes for a man to wear, but doesn’t save his head. 
Honour’s a woman’s pastime, Miss Demaine.” 

Nance looked at him with frank astonishment. This man 
knew that her own father was of Sir Jasper’s company, that 
she was troubled, like all stay-at-homes, lest ill news should 
come. And he chose this time to> defend himself by confess- 
ing that he and others had laughed at better men. And he 
talked of Tower Hill. 

“ When the gentlemen of Lancashire return — when the 
Prince has come to his own, and England is free again and 
happy — what then, Mr. Underwood. It will go ill, I think, 
with masqueraders.” 

They faced each other, the man insolent, ungroomed — true 
to his breed, as folk are apt to be in time of stress — Nance 
in that mood of hot fury and contempt which is cool and 
debonair. 

“ What then ? ” he said, stroking his horse’s neck. “ The 
Vicar of Bray was a very good man of the world, after all, 
and he prospered. We shall toast the Stuart openly; it will 
save all that clumsy ritual of passing the wine across the 
water.” 


176 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Nance was healthy, eager, human. She shrank, with an 
odd, childish loathing, from this man who counted the world 
— the big, gallant world of faith, and strife, and loyalty — as 
a dining-table, no more, no less, where wise men took their 
ease. She gathered the reins into her hand, turned in saddle. 

“ Keep the kerchief, sir,” she said gently. “ As I told you, 
you will need it when ” — her voice broke suddenly, against 
her will — •“ when our men come home from the crowning.” 

And then she left him. He watched her go down the slope 
on her fiddle-headed nag. All his buoyancy was gone. He 
had been spoiled by flattery, of word and glance ; he had been 
accustomed to be taken at his surface value, giving his friends 
little opportunity to test whether he rang true or not. And 
now he was like a pampered child that meets its first rebuff. 
His pluck had left him. He had no heart to follow Nance, 
though by and by he would regret the lost opportunity to 
claim rough satisfaction for her handling of him. She had 
spoken, with such security and pride, of the loyalty that was 
an instinct with her. Her men who had ridden out were of 
the like mind; and Underwood, in a flash of enlightenment 
and dismay, saw how the coming days would go with him if 
this haphazard venture of the Prince’s carried him to London 
and the throne. His comfortable house of Underwood, his 
easy life, the dinners and the hunting and the balls — all 
would have to be given up. He had no illusions now as to 
his power to continue here among them, explaining his share 
in the enterprise, winning his way back to favour by excel- 
lence in field sports and in ladies’ parlours. If the Prince 
came to his own, there would be an end of Wild Will, so 
far as loyal Lancashire was concerned; for at every turn he 
would have to meet the scorn that Nance had given him so 
unsparingly to-day. \ 

Nance looked back once, when she was half down the 
slope, and saw him sitting rigid in the saddle, horse and 
man showing in clear, lonely outline against the rainy sky. 
He would be himself again to-morrow, for shallowness can 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


177 


never suffer long; but she would have pitied him, may be, 
could she have guessed his bitter loneliness just now. Shorn 
of his self-love, Nance lost beyond hope of regaining — in- 
stinct told him so much — alive to the cowardice which no 
longer wore the more pleasant air of prudence, Underwood 
looked out on lands as forlorn as himself; and, far down the 
slope, he saw Nance’s little figure, and knew that, in some 
odd way that was better than himself, he loved this trim lass 
of Demaine’s. 

Nance reached the lower lands, where the bridle-track ran 
in and out beside the swollen streams, past coppices where the 
trees were comely in their winter’s nakedness. She saw each 
line and furrow of the pastures, remembered they had found 
a fox last month in the spinney yonder, recalled how she and 
Rupert had fished the brook together, just where it ran un- 
der the grey stone bridge below her. All her faculties seemed 
to be sharpened, rather than deadened, by the blow, piti- 
less and hard, that Will had given her just now. Her first 
love — the delicate and fragrant thing that had been inter- 
woven with her waking and her dreaming hours — had died 
shamefully. She could not even bring a decent show of grief 
to the graveside ; her only feeling was that it should be buried, 
in the middle of a dark midwinter’s night, out of all men’s 
sight and gossip. 

And, in this hour of swift and unexpected trouble, she was 
as her father and her brothers would have had her be — un- 
flinching, reliant, reaching out instinctively to the strong mor- 
row, not to the dead, unlovely yesterday. Only, she was 
very tired; and there was one friend she needed — a friend 
who could not come and put warm, human arms about her, 
because her mother had died long ago, leaving her to the 
care of men who love and honour and defend their women, 
but who are weak to understand their times of loneliness. 

She was a great figure, after all, this daughter of Demaine’s 
who rode on a broken-winded horse through the fieldways that 
had bred her. It is easy to ride forward, head erect, into 


178 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


the city you have taken by assault; but it is hard to carry 
upright shoulders and a firm, disdainful head, when only 
faith and the clean years behind support you in the thick of 
grave disaster. 

At the bend of the track, where it passed Sunderland’s 
cornmill — the water-wheel treading its sleepy round — she saw 
Rupert and Simon Foster twenty yards ahead. Simon was 
carrying -a couple of muskets, his pockets bulging with powr 
der-flasks and lead, and Rupert was limping a little, as if 
he had given too much work to his damaged ankle; and Nance 
Demaine, who was in the mood that sees all and understands, 
knew, from the look of Rupert’s back, that he was pleased 
with the day’s adventure. 

Her horse was tired now, and for the last mile she had 
ridden him at a gentle foot pace. The track was heavy with 
wet leaves that waited for a drying wind to scatter them. 
The two on foot did not hear the muffled splash of hoofs, 
and she was content to follow them. 

She had been friendless; and now half her loneliness had 
slipped away from her, at sight of Rupert limping on ahead. 
He was more diffident than she, more sensitive to ridicule 
and hardship; but he stood for the truths that matter in a 
world where men and women are ready, for the most part, 
to believe that all ends when death robs them of the power to 
eat, and sleep, and dance foolishly from day to day, like 
gnats when the sun is warm about them. He stood for her 
own simple, downright view of creed and honour; he was a 
comrade of the true breed, in brief, and she was in sore need 
of companionship just now. 

How well she seemed to know this cripple who jogged on 
before heffi Half- forgotten words of his; little, unselfish 
surrenders when Maurice had shown a younger brother’s 
wilfulness; the patient chivalry that had bidden him show 
deference to Lady Royd when her tongue was lashing his in- 
firmities — all these stood out with startling clearness. And 
again that curious, sharp pain was at her heart, and the old 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 179 

thought returned how good a knight was lost to Prince 
Charles Edward. 

They were near the gate of Windyhough now, and Rupert, 
hearing hoofs behind him at last, turned quickly. The fa- 
miliar eagerness came to his face at sight of her — the instant 
pleasure, followed by a hint of pain; the homage that was 
there to be read plainly by any onlooker. 

“ So this is the King’s business you have been about ? ” said 
Nance, looking down at him with a tenderness that set his 
blood on fire. 

“ Why, yes. I said Ihere was no mystery about it. Since 
you told me you could not trust your men to shoot 
straight ” 

“ Oh, Rupert, I was foolish ; I did not mean it. I was out 
of heart that day, and temper got the better of me.” 

“ But it was true. I had fancied that, if the attack came, 
it would be enough to fire one’s musket and trust to Provi- 
dence for marksmanship. It was a daft thought, Nance, was 
it not? It was shirking trouble.” 

Nance got down from the saddle, gave the reins to Simon 
Foster. “ Take him to the stable, Simon,” she said. “ He 
has carried me well, and deserves a double feed.” She 
wished to be alone with Rupert and the other’s presence 
seemed an irritating check on speech. And yet, when Simon 
had left them, they stood looking at each other in troubled 
silence. Each was in a tense, restless mood, and their trouble 
only gathered weight by the companionship. 

“ Did you find it hard — this learning how to shoot ? ” she 
asked at last. 

“ It was easier than knowing you could not trust me, Nance, 
to guard you.” The old, whimsical self-derision was in his 
voice. He had learned at least to carry his hurts bravely. 

And she could find no words. There was some quality in 
Rupert — of manliness — that touched her now with an emo- 
tion deep and poignant, and clean as tempered steel. 

“ The pity of it ! ” she murmured, after another long, un- 


180 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


easy silence. “ To prepare so well for an attack that cannot 
come ” 

“ But it may come, Nance. These last days — I cannot 
tell you why — I have not felt that all was make-believe, as I 
did at first.” 

“How should it come, Rupert? They are so far away — 
near London, surely, now ” 

“ How: will it come ? I do not know. But I know that 
I have asked for it — asked patiently, Nance — and faith must 
be answered one day.” 

“ My dear,” she said, “ you are so — so oddly staunch, and 
so unpractical.” And her voice broke, and she could get 
no farther. 

And Rupert smiled gravely, touched her hand, as a courtier 
might, and limped up toward the house. 

Nance stood there awhile, with long thoughts for com- 
pany. Then, seeking a respite from her mood, she crossed 
the stables to give a carrot to the fiddle-headed horse; but 
she got no farther than the corner of the yard. At the stable- 
door, deaf to all sounds from the outward world and careless 
of the many windows looking out on them, Simon Foster and 
Martha were standing hand in hand. Martha’s face was 
rose-red and smiling, her lover’s full of an amazing foolish- 
ness. 

“ There’s the bonnie, snod lass you are, Martha ! ” Simon 
was declaring. “ I never thought to see such a day as this. 
Why didn’t I think of it before, like?” 

“ Perhaps you were blind, Simon,” put in the other, with 
a coy upward glance. 

Nance retreated out of eye-shot, and for the moment she 
forgot her troubles. She just laughed until her eyes were 
wet and her slim little body shook. The scene was so unex- 
pected, so instinct with sheer humour, that the gravest must 
have yielded to it. Then, as the pressure of the last ill-fated 
days returned to her, she was filled with a childish wonder 
that life should be so muddled, so rough-and-tumble, so 


THE STAY-AT-HOMES 


181 


seemingly disordered. There was Sir Jasper, conquering or 
defeated, but either way carrying his life in his hands. There 
was Windyhough itself — house, lands and all — at stake. And 
yet Simon and the dairymaid, whose discretion now, if ever, 
should have ripened, were reading folly in each other’s eyes. 

She heard Martha cross, singing, to the kitchen, and turned 
and sought the stables again. She was anxious to learn some- 
thing which only Simon could tell her ; for Rupert was diffi- 
dent of his own skill at all times, and would not have given 
her, had she asked it, a true account of his marksmanship. 

Simon was brushing down the horse when she went in. 
He glanced up with grave, stolid innocence, as if he had had 
no other occupation than this of grooming. 

“ What has the master learned in these last days ? ” she 
asked abruptly. “ Does he aim well, Simon ? ” 

“ He shapes grandly ; but then, he always does when his 
mind is fair set on a matter. We were in a lonely spot, too, 
you see, with none to laugh at him while he made his first 
mistakes.” 

Nance stroked the fiddle-headed nag, and watched him 
munch his carrot, and seemed glad to linger here. 

“He can hit his man now, you think?” 

“ Well, I reckon if I were the man, I’d as lief be out of 
range as in. I tell you, the young master does naught by 
halves. The trouble is to get him started. You’d best corr\e 
with us when we go out again this afternoon, and shoot a 
match with him.” 

And by and by Nance went indoors with a light step and 
a sense of betterment. It was pleasant to hear Rupert 
praised. 


CHAPTER X 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 

While the Lancashire farmers were watering their cattle, 
milking them, tending the sheep whose fleeces were the great 
part of their livelihood ; while Lady Royd and Nance were 
querulous because they had a roof above their heads, and fires 
in the house, and food in plenty; while Rupert went dog- 
gedly about his drill of musket-practice, with a heart yearn- 
ing for the battles he pictured in the doing London way, the 
Prince’s army came to Derby — came in the dusk of a wild 
November day, with wind-driven rain across their faces, and 
every house-roof running wet. 

Derby was no fine town to see. It was commonplace and 
dull, to the verge of dreariness. But, to those who marched 
into it to-day on the Stuart’s business, it stood ever after- 
wards for a place of tragedy — tragedy so poignant and so 
swift that it gathered round its mean, ill-ordered streets a 
glamour not its own — the glamour of the might-have-been. 

Sir Jasper Royd, neither then nor afterwards, could piece 
together the tumult and unrest that troubled those two days 
they spent at Derby. He knew that Lord Murray was 
querulous, his temper shrewish ; he saw the Prince move 
abroad with unconquerable courage, but with the look in 
his eyes that Skye men have when the sad mists hide the sun 
from them. He was aware that some big issue, known only 
to the leaders, was calling for prompt decision. For the 
rest, he wondered that loyal gentlemen had any thought but 
one — to march on where Prince Charles Edward chose to 
lead. 

Once — it was on the second morning of their halt at Derby 
— he met Lord Murray face to face in the street. 

182 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 183 

“ You look trim and happy, Sir Jasper,” said Murray, un- 
easy in his greeting since the duel he had fought with this 
odd gentleman from Lancashire. 

“ My faith commands it. I obey. What else ? ” growled 
the older man. 

“ Then you’re lucky in your creed,” drawled the other — “ or 
in your obedience. Few gentlemen of the Prince’s could find 
a smile to-day, as you do, if their heads depended on it. Give 
me the trick of it, sir,” he went on, with clumsy raillery. 
“ When all is lost — when we’re trapped like foxes, with three 
armies closing in upon us — you take your snuff-box out, and 
dust your nostrils, and smile as if these cursed Midlands were 
a garden.” 

Sir Jasper’s distrust of the man yielded to a slow, unwill- 
ing pity. He had so much, as he counted riches, and Murray 
was so destitute, so in need of alms, that he spoke with quiet 
friendliness, as if he taught a child that two and two, since 
time’s beginning, added up to four. 

“ All the world’s a garden, to those who hold the Faith,” 
he said slowly, searching for the one right word to express 
what was plain to him as the road to London. “ When all 
seems losing, or lost altogether — are you so town-bred that 
you do not know the darkest hour comes just before the 
dawn — the dawn, if a man can keep himself in hand and 
wait for it ? ” 

“ Your sentiments, Sir Jasper, do you credit,” sneered Mur- 
ray, stung by the sheer strength, the reality, of this man’s 
outlook upon life. “ They should be written, in a round, fair 
hand, at the head of all good children’s copybooks. For our- 
selves, we are men — and living in a rough-and-ready world — 
and we know there are some dark hours that never lift to 
dawn.” 

“ There are none,” said Sir Jasper bluntly. “ Believe me, 
I talk of what I know. The black night always lifts.” 

Murray strode forward impatiently, turned back, regarded 
the other with an evasive glance. It was plain that, what- 


184 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


ever was his errand down Derby’s rainy main-street, he 
brought a harassed mind to it. “ You may be proved, sir, 
sooner than you think. Suppose this Rising failed. Sup- 
pose we were crushed like a hazel-nut between these three 
converging armies ; suppose the Prince were taken, and we 
with him, would you stand on Tower Hill and say the dawn 
was coming ? ” 

“ My lord Murray,” the other answered gravely, “ we none 
of us know, until the hour, whether our courage will prove 
equal to our needs. But I say this. If I’m the man I’ve 
drilled myself to be, if I can keep my eyes clear as they are 
now — I will stand with you on Tower Hill, and you will know 
that the dawn is very near to me.” 

“ Gad, sir, you’re tough ! ” growled Murray. Piety had 
shown to him till now as a dour, forbidding thing that made 
fools or fanatics of men. He had not understood — though 
the Highlanders should have taught him so much — that it 
could be instinct with romance, and warmth, and well-being, 
making endeavour and sacrifice a soldier’s road to the steep 
hill-tops of the certain dawn. 

“ I’ve need to be,” saicj Sir Jasper, with the same unalter- 
able simplicity. “ There are too many weak-kneed folk with 
us.” There was a pause, and he looked Murray in the face 
as he had done just before their duel in the wood. “ You go 
to the Prince’s Council ? ” he went on. 

“ Well, since you’ve guessed as much — yes.” 

“ And you will air your knowledge of arithmetic — will 
argue that all’s lost already according to the known rules of 
warfare. No, you need not disclaim. We know your mind. 
My lord, I am in command only of a ragged company from 
Lancashire, and not privileged to share your Council. But I 
ask you to listen to a plain gentleman’s view of this adventure. 
We follow no known rules, save that the straight road is the 
readiest. We have one thought only — of advance. There 
is the London road open to us, and no other, and God for- 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 185 

give you if you sound the note of retreat that will ruin all.” 

“ My good Sir Jasper, my mind was made up long ago. 
The world’s as it’s made, and battle is a crude reckoning up 
of men, and arms, and odds ” 

“ And the something more that you will not understand — 
the something that has carried us to Derby, as by a miracle. 
Listen, my lord! I ask you to listen. You go to this Coun- 
cil. In an hour or so all will be settled, one way or the other. 
Remember that you Highland chiefs have the Stuart’s honour 
in your hands, the lives of all these simple Highlanders. You 
know that the Prince has one mind only — to push forward — 
but that you can overrule him if you will.” Sir Jasper’s 
voice was strained and harsh, so eager was he to bring his 
voice to the Council, if only by deputy. “ You know, Lord 
Murray, that the Highlanders are with their Prince, in 
thought, in faith, in eagerness to run the gauntlet. You 
know, too, that your Scots tradition bids them, liking it or no, 
follow their chieftains first, their Prince afterwards.” 

“ I am well aware of it. That is the weapon I mean to 
make full use of, since you compel my candour.” 

It was a moment when men are apt to find unsuspected, 
gusty feelings stir and cry for outlet. For neither to Sir 
Jasper nor Lord Murray was there any doubt that the whole 
well-being of England — England, thrifty, pleasant, mistress 
of the seas, and royalist to the core of her strong, tender heart 
— rested on this Council that was soon to make its choice 
between opposing policies. And Lord Murray, in his own 
cold fashion, believed that he was the wise counsellor of the 
enterprise, enforcing prudence on hot-headed zealots; for 
Murray was three parts honest, though he was cursed from 
birth by lack of breadth and that practical, high imagination 
which makes fine leaders. 

“ I am sorry,” said Sir Jasper unexpectedly. “ Till you 
die, Lord Murray, you’ll regret your share in this. You’ve 
gained many to your side, and may carry what you have in 


186 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


mind; but, if you have your way, I’d rather die on Tower 
Hill than lie on the bed you’re making for yourself. You’ll 
think better of it ? ” he broke off, with a quick tenderness 
that surprised him. “ You’re brave, you’re capable ; surely 
you will see the open road to London as I see it now — the 
only road of honour. For your own sake ” 

“For my own sake?” snapped Murray, moved against his 
will. “ Why should you care so much, sir, for what con- 
cerns my happiness ? ” 

And then again Sir Jasper did not know his mood, was not 
master of the words that found their own heedless outlet. 
“Why? Because, perhaps, we fought together — long ago, it 
seems — because the man who wins a duel has always some 
queer, tender liking for his adversary. My lord Murray, I 
would wish to see you a strong man in this Council — strong 
as the Prince himself. I wish — dear God ! I wish to ride the 
London road beside you, forgetting we once quarrelled.” 

Murray’s face was hard as ever, but he was moved at last. 
This Lancashire squire, whose strength could not be bought, 
or tamed, or killed by ridicule, had found a way through all 
defences of prudence and arithmetic. It was the moment, 
had they known it, when the whole fate of the Rising was at 
issue; for the great councils are shaped often by those hap- 
hazard meetings in the streets that sway men’s moods before- 
hand. 

And, as it chanced, Lochiel came swinging down the street, 
on his way to join the Council — Lochiel, with his lean, up- 
right body, his gaiety, not lightly won, that made sunshine 
between the mean, grey house-fronts — Lochiel, his wet kilt 
swinging round his knees, and in his face the strong, tender 
light that is bred of the big hills and the big, northern storms. 

Murray glanced up the street, saw Lochiel. All finer im- 
pulses were killed, as if a blight had fallen on them ; for Mur- 
ray was ridden by the meanest of the sins, and was an abject 
slave to jealousy. 

Lochiel halted, and the three of them passed the time of 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 187 

day together, guardedly, knowing what was in the issue, and 
reticent. 

“ You come in a good hour, Lochiel,” said Murray, with 
the disdain that had never served him well. “ Sir Jasper here 
has been talking moonshine and high Faith. You’ll be 
agreed.” 

Lochiel stood, just himself, schooled by hardship to a chiv- 
alry that few men learn. “ I think on most points we’re 
agreed, Sir Jasper and I. It is a privilege to meet these 
gentlemen of Lancashire; they know their mind and speak it. 
They’ll not be bought, Murray, not even by Dame Prudence, 
whose lap you sit in.” 

So then Murray’s chilliness took fire. There was need, 
even in his sluggish veins, to set the troubles of this venture 
right by casual quarrels. 

“ When we find leisure, I shall seek satisfaction, Lochiel ; 
you’ll not deny it me.” 

And Lochiel laughed gently. “ Dear Murray, I ask noth- 
ing better. The only trouble is that we’ll be dead, the two 
of us, long before the promised meeting, if you have your 
way with the Council that is going to end old England or to 
mend her.” 

“ I shall have my way,” growled the other, and passed down 
the street. 

Lochiel put his arm on Sir Jasper’s shoulder. He had no 
gaiety now ; his heart was aching, and he spoke as friend 
to friend. “ I believe him,” he said quietly. “ Murray had 
always the gift of rallying doubters round him. The Duke 
of Perth is staunch. Elcho is staunch, and a few others. 
For the rest, they’ve been tempted by this glib talk of strategy. 
Murray has persuaded them that we’ve marched to Derby 
simply to retreat in good order; that we shall do better to 
fall back on some imaginary host of friends who happened 
to be late for the Rising, and who are eager now to join 
us.” 

“Retreat?” snapped Sir Jasper. “The devil coined that 


188 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


word, Lochiel. Murray’s shrewd and a Scotsman and no 
coward; he should know that the good way lies forward 
always.” 

And then Lochiel, because he was so heart-sick and so 
tired of strategy, fell into that light mood which touches men 
at times when they’re in danger of breaking under stress of 
feeling. 

“ I can only think of one case where your gospel fails,” he 
said, with the quick, boyish smile that sat oddly on his 
harassed face. “ Retreat in good order, sir, has been known 
to carry honour with it.” 

“ I know of none, Lochiel,” insisted the other, in his down- 
right way. 

“ Oh, Potiphar’s wife, perhaps. And, there, Sir Jasper, 
you think me flippant ; and I tell you that my heart is as near 
to breaking as any Hielandman’s in Derby. It is a queer, 
disastrous pain, this heartbreak.” Lochiel’s shoulders 
drooped a little. The wind came raving down the street 
and made him shiver as with ague. Then his weakness 
passed, and he lifted his trim, buoyant head to any hardship 
that was coming. “ Fools’ hearts may break,” he said sharply. 
“ For me, I’ll see this trouble through. IT1 find a glimpse 
of blue sky somewhere; aye, Sir Jasper, though Murray sets 
the darkness of the pit about us.” 

The two men looked gravely at each other, as comrades do. 
They were of the like unalterable faith; they were chilled by 
this constant drag upon a march that, left to the leader of 
it, would have gone forward blithely. 

Most of all, perhaps, they felt the weakness that was the 
keystone of their whole position. The Highlanders were 
eager for the Prince, would have laid down their lives for 
him, wished only for the forward march and the battle against 
odds; but, deep in those hidden places of the soul where the 
far-back fathers have planted legacies, they were obedi- 
ent to the tradition that a Highlandman follows his own 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 189 

chief, though the King himself bids him choose a happier and 
more pleasant road. 

Lochiel knew this, as a country squire knows the staunch 
virtues, whims, and failings of his tenantry; and because his 
knowledge was so sure, he feared the issue of this Council. 
Murray could never have won the rank and file; but he had 
captured the most part of the chiefs, who had been leading 
too easy lives these late days and had softened to the call 
of prudence. And the Council, in its view of it, had come 
already to a decision shameful and disastrous. 

“ Sir Jasper, ” said Lochiel suddenly, “ we go pitying our- 
selves, and that is always waste of time. What of the Prince? 
I cannot tell you the love — the love proven to the hilt — I have 
for him. We give our little to this rising; but he, brave 
soul, gives all. No detail of our men’s comfort in this 
evil weather, no cheery word when the world goes very ill 
with us, has been neglected. And, above the detail — oh, 
above the detail that frets his nerves to fiddle-strings — he 
keeps the single goal ahead. He keeps the bridge of faith, 
Sir Jasper, with a gallantry that makes me weak about my 
mother’s knees again, as if — as if I did not need to be 
ashamed of tears.” 

Sir Jasper passed a hand across his eyes. He had kept, 
through the rough journey of his sixty years, a passionate 
devotion to the Stuart; and he had travelled with Prince 
Charles Edward, as wayfarers do with wayfarers, through 
sleety roads, and had found, as few men do, that his fine, 
chivalrous ideal was less than the reality. “ I’ve been near 
his Highness often,” he said slowly. “ He kept his temper 
firm on the rein when I could not have done. He went about 
the camp o’ nights, when most of his gentry were asleep, and 
tended ailing Highlanders. He’s as big as Pendle Hill in 
Lancashire; and, Lochiel, keep a good heart through this 
Council, for he was cast in a bigger mould than most of 


190 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ He — is royal,” said Lochiel softly. “ That is all. Put 
him in peasant’s homespun, with his lovelocks shorn, he’d be 
still — why, just the Stuart, reigning from the hilltops over 
us.” 

“ And, Lochiel, you talked of heartbreak. We’re lesser 
men, and can jog along somehow if the worst comes. The 
Prince cannot. The heart of him — it’s like a well-grown 
oak, Lochiel; it will stand upright to the storm, or it will 
break. There is no middle way.” 

So then Lochiel remembered he would be late for the 
Council if he stayed longer in the windy street. “ There 
never was a middle way,” he said. “You, sir — and the 
Prince, God bless him ! — and Lochiel of the many weak- 
nesses, we never trod the middle way.” 

And somehow a great sorrow and great liking came to 
them, as if they were brothers parting in the thick of a 
stormy night where ways divided. 

“We shall meet soon again,” said Lochiel, the foolish 
trouble in his voice. “ And, either way this Council goes, 
we’ll find a strip of blue sky over us, Sir Jasper.” 

He swung down the street, his head upright and his figure 
lithe and masterful. He might, to all outward seeming, have 
been going to his own wedding. For that was Lochiel’s way 
when hope and courage were at their lowest ebb, when he con- 
quered his weakness by disdaining it. 

And Sir Jasper watched him go — watched other chieftains 
hurrying, with grave, set faces, to the Council. And then, 
for three long hours, he paced the streets. What Ru- 
pert, his heir, was learning there at Windyhough the father 
learned during this time of waiting for the news. The chiefs 
were in the thick of debate, were speaking out their minds, 
were guessing, from the shifting issues of the Council, which 
way the wind was sitting. They were in the fighting-line at 
least ; but he, whose heart was centred wholly on this Council 
that would settle all, was completed to stand by helpless to 
serve his Prince by word or deed. 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 


191 


He was not alone. It was an open secret that, behind the 
closed doors of the Council Chamber, men were deciding 
whether retreat or advance should be the day’s marching- 
order. Discipline was ended for awhile. The Highlanders 
could not rest in their lodgings, but stood about the streets 
in crowds, or in little knots, seeking what make-believe Derby 
town could give them of the free air and the big, roomy hills 
that, in gladness or in sorrow, were needful to them as the 
food they ate. The townsfolk, stirred from their sleepi- 
ness by all this hubbub of tattered, rain-sodden men who were 
bent on some errand dimly understood, mixed with the 
soldiery, and asked foolish questions, and got few answers, 
because the most part of the army spoke only Gaelic. 

The whole town, though men’s voices were low and hushed, 
was alive with that stress of feeling which is like a brewing 
thunderstorm. Men gathered into crowds, saying little, 
affect each other, till each feels in his own person the sum 
total of his neighbour’s restlessness ; and for that reason 
armies yield suddenly to a bewildering panic, or to a selfless 
courage that leads to high victories in face of odds. 

The wind swept down the streets of Derby. The rain was 
tireless. It did not matter. To Sir Jasper — to the men of 
Lancashire, and the Highlandmen who were old to sorrow of 
the hills — there was nothing mattered, save the news for 
which they waited. And the time dragged on. And still 
the Council doors were shut. 

Then, late in the afternoon, Lord Murray came out, and 
walked up the street, with half a dozen of his intimates be- 
side him. And, a little later, Lochiel came out, alone, and, 
after him, the Duke of Perth, alone. And Sir Jasper, stand- 
ing near the Council Chamber, knew at a glance which side 
had won the day. 

Last of all — a long while after, so it seemed to Sir Jasper 
— the Prince crossed the threshold, stood for a moment, as if 
stunned, with the rain and the spiteful wind against his cheek. 
He was like one grown old before his time — one bent and 


192 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

broken up by some disaster that had met his manhood by the 
way. 

Then, as Lochiel had done when he went down the street 
to this unhappy Council, the Prince lifted his head, squared 
his shoulders to the wind, and stepped out between the silent 
bystanders as if life were a jest to him. So then Sir Jasper 
was sure that retreat was the order of the day; was sure, 
too, that his Prince had never shown so simple and conspic- 
uous a gallantry as he did now, when he moved through the 
people as if he went to victory, not to a heartache that would 
last him till he lay, dead and at peace, beside his Stuart kins- 
men. 

At dawn of the next day the retreat began. It was a red 
dawn and a stormy, though the rain had ceased, and the 
wisp of a dying moon was lying on her back above the dis- 
mal housetops. 

The Prince stood aside and watched it all. A little while 
before he had bidden Lord Murray ride at the head of the 
outgoing army. “ I have no strategy, my lord/’ he had said, 
with chiselled irony. “ I lead only when attack comes from 
the front.” And Sir Jasper, with the instinct of old loyalty 
and new-found, passionate liking for the man, had drawn his 
own horse near to the Prince’s bridle; and they waited, the 
two of them, till the sad procession passed, as if to burial of 
their finest hopes. 

Not till Derby’s life is ended will she hear such trouble 
and such master-music as went up and down her streets on 
that disastrous, chilly dawn. The Highlanders were strong 
and simple-hearted men. They had obeyed their leaders, 
rather than the Prince who had sounded the forward note of 
battle. But no old allegiance could silence their pipers, who 
played a dirge t;o Prince Charles Edward, heir to the English 
throne. 

By one consent, it seemed, the pipers, as they went by their 
Prince, played only the one air. Low, insistent, mournful as 
the mists about their own wild hills, the air roamed up and 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 


193 


down the wet, quiet streets, till it seemed there had been no 
other music since the world began. There was no hope, no 
quick compelling glamour, as of old ; the pipes, it seemed, were 
broken-hearted like their leader, and they could only play for 
sorrow. 

Up and down the long, mean street, and down and up, 
between the wet house- fronts that reared themselves to the 
dying moon and the red murk of the dawn, the music roamed. 
And always it was the same air — the dirge known as “ The 
Flowers of the Forest,” which was brought to birth when the 
Scots lost Flodden Field. Since Flodden, generation after 
generation, men skilled at the pipes had taught their growing 
youngsters the way of it; and now the ripe training of the 
fathers had gathered to a head. No pipers ever played, or ever 
will again, as those who greeted the Prince as they passed by 
him — greeted him, with sadness and with music, as heroes sa- 
lute a comrade proven and well-loved. 

The riders and the men on foot went by. The tread of 
hoofs, the tread of feet, was slow and measured, as the tread 
of mourners is ; and down and up, and up and down, the echoes 
of the pipes’ lament roamed through Derby’s street. It was 
an hour — and there are few such — when men, with their 
strength and their infirmities, and their rooted need of battle, 
grow tender and outspoken as little children, who have found 
no need as yet to face life in the open. 

The Prince and Sir Jasper were alone. The fighting men 
had passed them, and the chattering townsfolk. And from 
afar, down the silence of the empty street, the sorrow of the 
pipes came with a low, recurring lilt. 

Lochiel, not long ago, had sounded the right note. They 
were children, Sir Jasper and his Prince, gathered round their 
mothers’ knees again ; and, through the murk of Derby’s street, 
and through the falling sorrow of the music, God spoke to 
them, as if they needed, in this hour of extreme weakness, to 
reach out and hold with firm hands the faith that was slipping 
from their grasp. 


194 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


And the moment passed, leaving them the sadder, but the 
stronger for it. And they were men again — comrades, facing 
a disastrous world. And presently they rode slowly out of 
Derby, and took the long road north again ; and between them 
fell a silence chill and heavy as the rain that never ceased to 
whip the puddles of the highway. 

“ Your eyes are wet, Sir Jasper,” said the Prince, turning 
sharply from the thoughts that were too heavy to be borne. 

“ So are yours, your Highness,” the other answered gruffly. 

“ Well, then, we’ll blame the pipes for it. I think — there’s 
something broken in me, sir, since — since Derby; but no man 
in my army, except yourself, shall ever guess as much. We 
shall be gay, Sir Jasper, since need asks.” 

A few hours later a motley company of horse — three-and- 
twenty strong — rode into Derby. Some half-dozen of the 
riders were English, but the rest, and the officer in command, 
were Hessian soldiery. The officer, one Captain Goldstein, 
spoke English with some fluency ; and his business here, it 
seemed, was to gather from the townsfolk such details of the 
retreat as they could furnish. 

They spent less than an hour in the town, snatched a hurried 
meal — for which, unlike the Prince’s men, they did not pay — 
and rode back as fast as they could set hoofs to ground to the 
main body of the Duke of Cumberland’s army, which had been 
hanging on the rear of the Stuart’s men for many days, hoping 
always to overtake them, and always finding them a few leagues 
nearer London than themselves. 

Captain Goldstein went straight to the Duke’s lodgings, and 
the sentry passed him in without demur when his challenge 
had been answered. 

“ Ah, good ! ” said Cumberland gruffly, looking up from a 
map which he was studying. “ What news from Derby? ” 

“ The best news. They’ve turned tail, though we could not 
credit the rumours that came into camp. Derby is empty, youi 
Grace.” 

The two men were oddly like each other, as they stood in thf 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 


195 


lamplit room. They were big and fleshy, both of them ; and 
each had the thick, loose lips, the heavy jaw, that go with an 
aggressive lust for the coarser vices, an aggressive ambition, 
and a cruelty in the handling of all hindrances. 

Cumberland drained the tankard at his elbow, thrust his 
boots a little nearer to the fire-blaze. “ What fools these Stu- 
arts are ! ” he said lazily. 

“ By your leave, no,” said Captain Goldstein, wishing to be 
exact in detail. “ From all I gathered, it was not the Pre- 
tender, but the leaders of the clans, who forced the retreat.” 

“ Well, either way, it's laughable. The Elector bars their 
way at Finchley with ten thousand men ; it sounds formidable, 
Goldstein, eh ? but we know what a rotten nut that is to crack. 
And I could not overtake them ; they march with such cursed 
speed ; and poor old Marshal Wade, supposed to be converging 
from the north, is always a week late for the fair. They held 
the cards; and, Goldstein, are you jesting when you say that 
they’ve retreated ? ” 

“ I never jest, your Grace. Derby is empty, I say; and it is 
not my place to suggest that you order boot-and-saddle to be 
sounded.” 

“ No,” snarled Cumberland, facing round on this officer 
whom he was wont to kick or caress, according to his mood. 
“ No, Goldstein, it is not your place. Your place? You’d be 
housed in the kennels if you had your proper lodgings. I res- 
cued you from that sort of neighbourhood, because you seemed 
to have the makings of a soldier in you.” 

“ They’ll retreat with speed, as they advanced. The wind’s 
in the feet of these Highlanders,” said Goldstein stubbornly. 

“ We shall catch them up. To-day I’ve much to do, Gold- 
stein — an assignation with the miller’s buxom daughter, a mile 
outside the camp ; she’s waiting for me now.” 

“ She’ll wait, sir, till your return. You have that gift with 
women.” 

Cumberland stirred lazily, got to his feet. He was pleased 
by this flattery that was clumsy as his own big, unwholesome 


196 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


body. “ She’ll wait, you think? Well, let her wait. Women 
are best trained that way. There, Goldstein, I was only jest- 
ing. You broke the good news too sharply. They’ve re- 
treated? Say it again. Oh, the fools these Stuarts are! I 
must drink another measure to their health.” 

A little later the whole Hanoverian army moved north. 
Cumberland was keen and happy, because he saw butchery and 
renown within his grasp. Through days and weeks of hard- 
ship over sloppy roads he had hunted the Stuart whom he 
loathed, had found him constantly elude pursuit. And now, 
it seemed, his hour of triumph was at hand. And triumph, to 
his Grace of Cumberland, meant always, not pardon of his ene- 
mies, but revenge. 

“ They leave us a plain track to follow,” he said to Goldstein 
as, near midday, after riding slantwise from their camp to 
strike the northern road, eight miles north of Derby, they came 
from muddied bridle-paths to a highway that was deep in tram- 
pled slush. “ They were nimble in advance, but retreat will 
have another tale to tell. We shall catch them to-morrow, or 
the next day after.” 

And Goldstein agreed ; but he did not tell all he knew — how 
he had learned from the Derby townsfolk that the Prince rode 
far behind his army, attended only by one horseman. Instead, 
he spoke of the commission he held, as officer in command of a 
roving troop of cavalry, and asked if he might be free to harass 
the retreat. 

“ We ride lighter than your main body, your Highness, and 
could pick off stragglers as well as bring news of the route 
these ragged Pretender’s men are taking.” 

“ Yes, ride forward,” growled Cumberland, “ You’ve the 
pick of my scoundrels with you, Goldstein — hard riders and 
coarse feeders — they’ll help you pick off stragglers.” 

The two men exchanged a glance of understanding. Dif- 
ference of rank apart, they were brotherly in the instincts that 
they shared ; and his Grace of Cumberland, from his youth up, 
had had a gift for choosing his friends among those who rode 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 197 

unencumbered by conscience, or pity, or any sort of tenderness. 
And, as he had said just now, he found them mostly in the ken- 
nels. 

“ One word,” said Cumberland, as the other prepared to ride 
forward. “ There’s no quarter to be given. For the coun- 
try’s sake — for the safety of the King — we shall make an ex- 
ample of these rebels.” 

Goldstein glanced warily at him, to see if he jested and 
looked for an answering wink. But it pleased the Duke to as- 
sume an air which he thought royal. 

“ An example, you understand ? ” he repeated. “ Tell these 
gentle devils of yours that they can ride on a free rein. If you 
scotch a Pretender’s man, put your heel on him and kill him 
outright. Our royal safety — England’s safety — depends on 
it.” 

Goldstein, as he spurred forward to gather his cavalry to- 
gether, grinned pleasantly. “ Our royal safety — England’s 
safety,” he muttered, mimicking the Duke’s rough, broken ac- 
cent. “ He’s got it pat by heart, though it seems yesterday he 
crossed from Hanover.” 

He gathered his men, and rode forward at their head through 
the rain and the sleety mud that marked the passage of the 
Highlanders. And when they had gone three miles or so on 
the northern road, they captured a frightened countryman, 
who was getting his sheep down from the pastures in anticipa- 
tion of the coming snow. It was the first blood they had drawn 
in this campaign, and Goldstein made the most of it. He liked 
to have a weak thing at his mercy, and he spared the farmer no 
threat of what would follow if he failed to tell the truth. For 
his pains, he learned that the Highlanders were marching fast 
along the northern road, five hours ahead of them. He learned, 
too, that one who answered to the Prince’s description still rode 
behind his army, and that he was accompanied only by one gen- 
tleman on horseback. 

They went forward, leaving the countryman half-dazed with 
fright ; and presently Goldstein’s men began to murmur at the 


198 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


hardships of the road. A rough company at best, united only 
by a common lust of pillage and rapine, they needed a firmer 
hand on them than one promoted from their own ranks could 
give. 

Goldstein, knowing this, drew them up in line. And first he 
stormed at them, without avail ; for they were harder swearers 
than himself, and missed that crisp, adventurous flow of tongue 
which comes to gentlemen-offlcers at these times. So then, 
seeing them mutinous and like to get further out of hand the 
more he stormed, lie grinned pleasantly at them. “ My orders 
from the Duke,” he said, “ are to capture the Pretender, dead 
or alive, before he gets back to Scotland. There’s thirty thou- 
sand pounds on his head. He rides alone behind his army, as 
you heard just now, and we shall share the plunder. 

The appeal went home this time, for Goldstein knew his men. 
They bivouacked that night four miles wide of Macclesfield, in 
Cheshire, and the next day — the sun showing his face at last 
through tattered, grey-blue clouds — they came in sight of the 
Stuart army. They had crossed by a bridle-track which, from 
a little knoll, gave them a view of the long, straight highway 
that stretched, a grey, rain-sodden ribbon, between the empty 
fields. They saw kilted men go by, and horsemen riding at a 
foot pace; and they heard the pipes that could not anyway be 
still, as they played that air of “ The Flowers of the Forest ” 
which was both dirge and battle-song. And Goldstein, some- 
where under the thick hide he carried like a suit of armour, 
was stirred by the strength and forlornness of it all. He saw 
great-hearted men go by, shoulders carried square against re- 
treat, and, in some crude, muddled fashion, he understood that 
they were of fibre stronger than his own. He sat there in sad- 
dle, moodily watching the horse and foot go by. There was 
no chance as yet to pick off stragglers, for the army kept in. 
close order; yet Goldstein waited after the last company had 
ridden by — they chanced to be the MacDonald clan — as if he 
looked for some happening on the empty road below. 

And presently, while his men began to fidget under this in- 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 199 

action in the rain, two horsemen came round the bend of the 
highway. The Prince and Sir Jasper were riding together 
still, but were talking no longer of the Rising and retreat. In- 
stead, they were laughing at some tale the Prince had lately 
brought from France; and Sir Jasper was bettering French 
wit by a story, rough and racy and smelling of the soil, which 
he had heard at the last meet of hounds in Lancashire before 
he set out on this sterner ride. For women, when they are 
heartsick, find ease in rending characters to shreds, especially 
sister-women’s; but men need the honest ease of laughter, 
whether the jest be broad or subtle. 

“ Sir Jasper,” said the Prince, “ you’re' vastly likeable. 
When I come to my own, you shall dine with me and set the 
table in a roar. Meanwhile — a pinch of snuff with you.” 

Sir Jasper dusted his nostrils, with the spacious air that set 
well on him. And then, from old habit, he glanced up, in search 
of the hills that were food and drink to him in time of trouble. 
He saw no hills worth the name ; but, for lack of them, his 
eyes rested on a mound, wide of his bridle-hand, which from 
lack of true proportion the country-folk named Big Blue Hill. 
There was little inspiration to be gathered from the mound; 
so he looked out with his world’s eyes again, and saw that there 
were horsemen gathered on the rise, and that they wore the 
enemy’s livery. 

“ Your Highness, we must gallop,” he said briefly. 

The Prince, following his glance, saw Goldstein plucking his 
horse into a trot. “ I prefer to wait,” he said lazily. “ It is a 
skirmish of this sort I hoped for.” 

“ And your Highlanders ? We’re in the open without a wall 
to set our backs to. You dare not leave your Highlanders.” 

“ True, I dare not.” He glanced wistfully at the down-rid- 
ing men, as if death in the open were easier to him just now 
than life. “ It is retreat once more ? Dear God, I must have 
sinned, to have this sickness put on me ! ” 

“ Our horses are fresh. We’ll give them Tally-Ho, your 
Highness.” 


200 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Through the darkness and the trouble of his soul, through 
the wish to die here and now and lie in forgetfulness of Derby 
and retreat, the Prince caught up some tattered remnants of 
the Stuart courage. It was easy to wait, sword ready, for the 
oncoming; but it was hard to gallop from an enemy he loathed. 
Yet from the discipline of that long peril shared with his men, 
since they came on the forlorn hope from Scotland, the strength 
that does not fail returned to Prince Charles Edward. He set 
his mare — Nance Demaine’s mare — to the gallop; and Sir Jas- 
per rode keen and hard beside him; and Goldstein found his 
heavy horse slip and lurch under him, as all his company did 
while they blundered in pursuit. Goldstein followed headlong. 
Three of his troopers came to ground in galloping down a 
greasy slope, and their leader, if he had been a worse horse- 
man, would have shared the same fate. As it was, he kept 
forward, and at a bend of the road saw, half a mile ahead, 
the company of MacDonalds who kept the rear of the Stuart 
army. 

“ Well, it’s not to-day we catch him,” he snapped, reining up 
and facing the ill-tempered men behind him. “ We can bide 
our time.” 

“ Aye, we’ve been biding a good while,” growled a weather- 
beaten trooper. “ Whichever way his back’s turned, this 
cursed Pretender always slips out of reach.” 

“ The money’s on his head, you fools ! ” snapped Goldstein. 
“ You’ll mutiny against God or man, but not against thirty 
thousand pounds, if I know your breed. There’s to-morrow ; 
we shall catch him soon or late, while this mood is on him to 
ride behind his army.” 

They were sobered by this hint of money. For they were 
men who plied for hire, and only hire. And that night they 
encamped on the outskirts of Manchester, where the Prince’s 
army lay, and dreamed they were rich men all. And the next 
morning they were almost cheerful, this ragged cavalry of 
Goldstein’s, because the day’s hunt was up, and because their 
view of the Rising was narrowed to each man’s share of the 


HOW THE PIPES PLAYED DREARILY 201 

blood-money when they took Prince Charles Edward, dead or 
alive. ^ 

Up at Windyhough, in Lancashire, this same red dawn had 
shone through the open window of Rupert’s bedchamber, rous- 
ing him from uneasy slumber. He had gone to the casement, 
and was after line the rugged spurs and knolls strode up from 
the night-mists into the crimson and purple that gained in 
splendour every moment. Of a truth, it was a man’s land; 
and the thought goaded Rupert into deep and passionate self- 
pity, as it had always done. Over the hills yonder his father 
rode beside the Stuart — men going on a manly errand. Per- 
haps they had fought their big battle already, were hastening 
to a London eager to receive the conquerors. And he? He 
was playing at the defence of a house remote from any chance 
of action. And there was Nance, waiting for him to prove 
himself, growing cold and contemptuous because each new day 
found him still Rupert the Dreamer, inept, irritable, a burden 
to himself and others. 

Perhaps, out of the sympathy that had always bound Sir 
Jasper and his heir together, the like mood had come to both 
just now, the like need to face a stern and awful sickness of 
the soul, to win through it, to plant Faith’s standard in the wil- 
derness of defeat and hope deferred. 

“ Nance was right. Nothing will ever again happen at Win- 
dyhough, until my father returns from the crowning — and then 
the work will be done, and no more need of me.” 

Stubbornly, slowly, he came to a better heart and mind. Un- 
doubtedly this scholar had pluck. 

“ I will not give in,” he said, lifting his head to the ruddy 
heath as if answering a challenge. 

And at that hour the Prince and his father were riding north 
from Derby — were riding nearer to him than he thought, on a 
journey whose end no man could foresee. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH 

Nearly a week had gone since Nance came down from her 
ride on the moor, from the meeting, with Will Underwood that 
had ruined one dream of her life for good and all. Each day 
that passed was more full of strain for those at Windyhough. 
They practised musketry together, she and Rupert and old 
Simon Foster; and the rivalry between them, keen enough, 
improved their marksmanship. At the week’s end Rupert was 
the best shot of the three ; it was his way to be thorough, and 
to this business of countering Nance’s taunt — that she could 
not trust her men to guard her — he brought the same untiring 
zeal, the patience not to be dismayed, that had kept his faith 
secure against disastrous odds. 

But as each short day closed in there was the return to the 
silence of the house at Windyhough, to Lady Royd’s wonder 
if her husband were lying dead in some south country ditch, 
to the yapping of the toy spaniel that harassed Rupert because, 
soul and body, he was tired of mimic warfare. 

They had come home this afternoon from musket-drill, and 
Simon had left them in the courtyard. A, little, sobbing wind 
was fluting round the gables, and the red light on the hills 
foretold, unerringly, that snow would come. 

Nance looked up at the black front of Windyhough. The 
homeless desolation of the land took hold of her. She was 
cold, and tired of all things ; and she sought for some relief, 
and could find none, save by way of the tongue that is woman’s 
rapier. 

“What of your trust, Rupert?” she asked sharply. “A 
week ago — it seems half a lifetime — you said there would be 
some swift attack — you said that you had faith. Faith, my 

1202 


THE TALE COMES; TO' WIN ( D THOUGH 203 

dear — I tell you it is cold and empty as the wind. Your only 
answer is — why, just your mother’s spaniel barking- at you 
from within. Faith should know the master’s footstep, Ru- 
pert.” 

He had been sick at heart till now. The answer had not 
come as soon as he had hoped, and his need was urgent ; but 
the faith in him rose clear and dominant. 

“ You’re a baby, Nance. You talked of half a lifetime. I 
could wait so long in patience, knowing the Stuart, soon or 
late, would come to the good crowinng.” 

She glanced at him with impatience, with a certain 
wistful curiosity. “ Does your creed go deep as that, Rupert ? 
Mine does not,” she said, with her frank, bewildering 
honesty. 

“ My creed ? ” Rupert’s shoulders were squared in earnest 
now. He stood to his full six feet, and in his eyes was that 
look of the man who cannot be bought, or bullied, or flattered, 
from allegiance to the straight road ahead. “ It goes deeper, 
Nance. What else? Faith! You seem to think it means 
only kneeling in a church, a woman’s refuge from the outside 
storms, a ball to play with, when the time seems slow in pass- 
ing” 

“ You will tell me more,” said Nance gently. 

“ I cannot. Go to Sir Jasper, who can use a sword; go to 
your father, who can fight and hunt and play the man wherever 
men are gathered. They kneel in church, Nance — and in the 
open roads they feel their swords the cleaner for it ; they carry 
knighthood with them, so that clowns read it in their faces as 
they pass.” 

“ Who taught you this ? ” she asked. 

He laughed, with the diffidence and self-contempt that al- 
ways lay in ambush for him. “ I dreamed it, maybe. You 
always said I was a dreamer, Nance — a fool, you meant, but 
were too kind to think it.” 

So they stood there, in the cold and ruddy gloaming, and 
were helpless to find speech together. All that lay deep in 


204 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Nance, secure beneath each day’s indignities, went out to this 
heir of Windyhough. His view of life was hers ; his roots 
were in the soil, tilled lovingly by far-back fathers, that breeds 
the strong plants of chivalry. And yet — and yet he was so 
fitful in his moods, so apart from the needs of every day, so 
galling to the women who looked, as a matter of course, for 
their men to go out into the open. 

And then, following some odd byway of memory, she re- 
called how grim and steady and reliant he had been that win- 
ter’s day — it seemed long since — when he had sent Will Un- 
derwood and herself down the moor while he prepared to 
fight out the quarrel with his younger brother. 

“ Rupert,” she said, seeking for some way of praising him, 
“ you shot well to-day.” 

“ Yes,” he growled. “ I outshot a woman, Nance — and a 
man who was crippled in every joint he owned. I take no 
praise for that. As men count shooting, I’m where I always 
stood — your patient fool, Nance.” 

So they stood helpless there, one aching with the love he had 
— each day of this close companionship making Nance more 
lovable and more far off — the other stifled by her pity for this 
heir of Windyhough, who needed so little to touch his man- 
hood into living flame. 

And as they stood a horseman came clattering up. There 
was mud on his horse, so that none could have told whether it 
were roan or black or chestnut, There was mud on his clothes, 
and on his hands, and on his lean, strained face. As he reined 
up sharply, his gift of knowing faces and their records did not 
fail him. 

“You’re Sir Jasper’s son?” he said. “I’m glad, sir, to 
meet you out of doors, for it will save me time.” 

Rupert was aware of some sense of betterment. Dimly, and 
far off as yet, he saw the answer to his faith take shape and 
substance. “ I remember you, sir,” he answered gravely. 
“ You are Mr. Oliphant of Muirhouse, and once you — you 
praised my shortcomings. You — you helped me, sir, that night 


THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH 205 

you came to Windyhough. You do not guess the debt I owe 
you.” 

Oliphant, sick with hard riding, more sick with the disas- 
trous news that he was bringing to the loyal north, halted for 
remembrance of that night when he had come to Sir Jasper’s 
and found Lady Royd and a slim, nerve-ridden lad who was 
vastly like his own dead self, buried long ago under the hills of 
fine endeavour. 

“ By your leave, sir,” he said, gently as if the pipes were 
sobbing for dead hopes, “ I think you’ve pluck enough to hear 
bad news and take it like a soldier. All’s lost — at Derby — and 
the Prince’s men are coming north again.” 

Nance went apart and put weak, foolish hands about her 
eyes. There could be no resurrection, she fancied, from this 
death in life that was meant by the retreat from Derby. But 
Rupert held his head up and looked at Oliphant with steady 
eyes. The blow was sudden and bewildering; this retreat cut 
deep into his faith, his certainty that the Prince could not fail 
to carry London ; and his shoulders broadened to the burden, 
so that he carried it well — almost lightly, as it seemed to Nance. 

“ My father — he is safe, sir ? ” he asked quietly. 

“Yes, safe; but his temper is like a watch-dog’s on the 
chain ” 

“ He’ll bite deeper when the chance comes.” Rupert was 
smiling gravely through his eagerness. “ Mr. Oliphant, I — I 
dare not ask you what — what my father — and the Prince — 
and the Highlanders — are feeling.” 

Oliphant set a rough hand on his arm. “Feeling? The 
whole route north is one long burial. I’ve seen battle, I’ve 
heard the wounded crying when the night-wind crept into their 
wounds, but I never met anguish as I met it on the road from 
Derby. My lad, I cannot speak of it — and the Prince among 
them all, with a jest on his lips to hearten them, and his face 
as if he danced a minuet — all but the eyes, the saddened eyes — 
the eyes, I think, of martyred Charles, when he stepped to the 
scaffold on a bygone January morning and bade us all remenu 


206 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


her ” Oliphant halted a moment. A fury, resolute and quiet, 
was on him. “ By God, sir, some few of us are not likely to 
forget ! ” 

And suddenly Nance sobbed aloud, though she had never 
learned the woman’s trick of easy tears. And about Oliphant’s 
face, too, a softness played. It was a moment for these three 
such as comes seldom to any of us — a moment packed so full 
with grief and tragedy that they must needs slip off the masks 
worn at usual times. They three were of the old Faith, the 
old, unquestioning loyalty. They had no intrigues, of policy 
or caution, to hide from one another. One of the three had 
been with the army of retreat, had felt the throb and pity that 
put a finer edge to the sword he carried; and two of them 
waited here at Windyhough, sending long thoughts out to help 
the wayfarers. And now there was an end, it seemed ; and in 
the chilly gloaming their hearts met, caught fire, were friendly 
in a common grief. 

As for Rupert, he felt his soul go free to prison ; he was 
finding now the answer to the unhappy, ceaseless trouble he 
had undergone since childhood. He had been thrust aside by 
folk more practical and matter-of-fact ; he had feared ridicule ; 
he had heard men name him scholarly, and had retreated, like 
a snail into its shell, to the dreams of gallantry that were food 
and drink to him. But through it all he had kept one bridge 
against all comers — the bridge of his simple, knightly faith; 
and it is the big deeds such as this — wrought out in silence, so 
that none guesses them — that train a man for the forlorn 
hope, the sudden call, the need to step out into the open 
when there is no one else to face odds ludicrous and over- 
whelming. 

It was Rupert who broke the silence, and his voice was deep 
and steady. “ Mr. Oliphant,” he said, not knowing how the 
words came to him, “ this may be for the best.” 

So Oliphant, who was saddle-sore and human, snapped round 
on him. “ By gad, sir, you are obstinately cheerful ! Ride 
somewhere between here and Derby, and ask the Highlanders 


THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH 207 

if all is for the best. I tell you I have seen the Prince’s face, 
and faith grows dull. He would be in London now, if he had 
had his way.” 

Rupert glanced up to the moors, where the last tattered ban- 
ners of the sunset fluttered crimson on the hilltops. And in 
his eyes was the look which any countryman of Lancashire, or 
any Highlander from Skye, would have known as “ seeing 
far.” 

“ The Prince has not had his way,” he said, with queer, un- 
hurried certainty. “ You tell us he retreats as other men go to 
a ball. You say his heart is breaking, sir, and that he still finds 
jests. I know retreat and waiting — know them by heart — and 
the going is not smooth. If he can do this — why, he’s bigger 
even than my dreams of him.” 

Nance understood him now ; and Oliphant’s ill-temper ceased 
to trouble him. Here was one, bred of a soldier-stock, who 
had missed his way along the road of deeds ; but to the bone of 
him he was instinct, not with the ballad-stuff of victory, but 
with the tedious prose of long, sick marches, of defeat carried 
with shoulders squared to any onset of adversity. 

Oliphant laughed grimly. It was his way when feeling 
waded so deep that it was like to carry him away. “ I’ve seen 
many countries, lad — have had my back to the wall a few times, 
knowing who stood by me and who found excuse to save his 
skin ; but I never in my travels met one so like a man, round 
and about, find him in rough weather or in smooth, as — as 
the Prince, God bless him ! The ladies up in Edinburgh — your 
pardon, Miss Demaine, but some of your sex are fools para- 
mount — saw only his love-locks and the rest of it ; but we have 
seen his manhood. There’s none like him. And he retreats 
because my Lord George Murray is mathematical and has cap- 
tured the Scots prudence of the chiefs ; and he’s still the great 
gentleman among us — greater now that he dances, not in Holy- 
rood, but through the miry roads.” 

Nance glanced up sharply. She was thinking of Will Un- 
derwood, who had killed first love for her with a clown’s 


208 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


rough hand. “ If there were more men of your breed — and 
Rupert’s ” 

“ By your leave,” broke in Oliphant gruffly, “ I think most 
of us are bred straight. The mongrels make such an uproar 
that you fancy them a full pack in cry, Miss Demaine. We’re 
not happy, not one of us three ; but we carry a faith bigger than 
our hardships.” He turned to Rupert with surprising grace 
and charm. “ My thanks, sir. I was tired before I met you, 
and now — my weariness is gone.” 

The door of Windyhough was opened suddenly, and Lady 
Royd came running out bareheaded, and halted on seeing the 
horseman and the two on foot in the falling dusk of the court- 
yard. 

" Rupert, I cannot find my little dog ! ' she cried. 

Her elder-born smiled grimly. He was struggling with the 
need to stand firm against Oliphant’s disastrous news ; and his 
mother came to tell him, in her pretty, querulous way, that her 
little dog was missing. 

“ Fido is in the house, mother,” he answered patiently. “ We 
heard him barking at us when we crossed the courtyard.” 

“ Oh, it is not Fido. It’s the little black pug, Rupert. And 
she’s so delicate. An hour of this keen wind, if she is out of 
doors, might kill the poor, wee doggie.” 

Oliphant of Muirhouse gave a muttered curse, for, to his 
finger-tips, he was a man, his instincts primitive when they 
were touched. Then he laughed gently, for his soul’s health, 
and got from saddle, and stooped to kiss Lady Royd’s hand. 

“ You do not know me, Lady Royd, in this dim light? I’m 
Oliphant of Muirhouse, and I bring Rising news.” 

Sir Jasper’s wife put a hand to her breast. The movement 
was quick, and another than Oliphant might easily have missed 
it in this dim light ; but now his task grew harder, for he knew 
that, apart from pet-dog whimsies, she loved her husband. 

“ Is he safe, Mr. Oliphant?” she asked, bridging all usual 
courtesies of greeting. 

“ Hale and well. I saw him three days since, and he sent 


THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH 209 

messages to you, knowing I had errands here in Lancashire.” 

Lady Royd, easy for the moment because her good man did 
not happen to be lying dead among the ditches of her night- 
mares, grew almost roguish. “And his heart, sir? Is it 
sound, too? There are so many pretty women in the south — 
I know, because I lived there once, before I came to these 
bleak hills that frighten me.” 

Oliphant sought for some way of breaking news better left 
untold. “You to fear rivalry?” he said, in his low, pleasant 
voice. “ Sir Jasper has known you all these years ” 

“ Precisely. And the years have left their mark. You need 
not dwell on that, Mr. Oliphant.” 

“ I meant that, to have known you all these years — why, it 
explains the loverlike and pressing messages he sent by me.” 

So then Lady Royd was like a girl in her teens. “ Tell me 
what he said.” 

“ No, by your leave ! ” laughed Oliphant. “ He said so much, 
and my time is not my own just now.” 

“ How — how comforting you are, like Mr. Underwood, who 
finds always the right word to say.” 

“ I say it with a difference, I hope,” snapped Oliphant, too 
weary to hide old dislikes. “ I’ve known Mr. Underwood 
longer than I care to remember. He’s a man I’d trust to fail 
me whenever the big hunt was up.” 

Nance laughed suddenly. The relief was so unexpected and 
so rousing. “ You’ve the gift of knowing men, Mr. Oliphant.” 

“ There, child ! ” broke in Lady Royd. “ You must come to 
my years before you talk of understanding men ; and even then, 
if I die in my bed at ninety, I shall never know why we find 
their daft ways so likeable.” 

Oliphant, afraid to hurt a woman always, was seeking for 
some way to break his news. This wife of Sir Jasper’s was 
leal and tender, underneath her follies; and her husband was 
in retreat — in a retreat dangerous to the safety of his body, but 
more perilous still to the quick and fiery soul that had led him 
south with Prince Charles Edward. 


210 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ He is in good health,” he said slowly — “ but the Cause is 
not.” 

“ There has been a battle ? ” She was alert, attentive now. 

“ Yes — a battle of the Council-chamber, and the Prince was 
outnumbered. The odds were four to one at least.” 

“ I do not understand, sir.” 

“ Nor do I,” he went on, in a quiet heat of rage. “ We were 
cavaliers all, dashing straight through England on the forlorn 
hope. All depended on looking forward. The chiefs chose 
just that moment to look back along the road of prudence. It 
is disastrous, pitiful. I dare not think of it.” 

“ So they — are in retreat ? ” 

“ That is my message to you. Sir Jasper wishes you to stay 
here at Windyhough. The march north will go wide of you, 
through Langton, and you’ll be secure here.” 

Lady Royd stood very still in the wind that at another time 
would have made her peevish with longing for her warm south 
country. Her surface tricks, the casual littleness that had dis- 
turbed Sir Jasper’s peace, were blown aside. She was think- 
ing of her husband, of all this Rising meant to him, of his 
heartsickness and the hazards that were doubled now. 

“ I would God, sir, that he had bidden me go out to join him 
in retreat,” she said at last. “ I shall be secure here, he thinks ? 
House walls about one, Mr. Oliphant, and food to eat, and wine 
to drink — are they security? I’m weak and foolish on the sud- 
den — I never understood till now that, where he goes, there is 
home for 'me. Shelter? I need none, except his arms about 
me.” 

There are times — moments set thick with trouble, when faith 
and all else seem drowning in the flood — that compel us to 
struggle free of reticence. Oliphant of Muirhouse was not 
aware that there was anything singular or unseemly in this 
spoiled wife’s statement of her case. Nance answered to the 
direct appeal ; for her own heart was bruised, and fragrant 
with the herb named pity. And Rupert, for his part, stood 


THE TALE COMES TO WIN'jDYHOUGH 


211 


aside and gazed at his mother across the red, murky twilight, 
and wondered how it came that one of his dreams was an- 
swered after all. In face and voice and tender uprightness of 
figure, this mother of his was something near the ideal he had 
woven round her, despite her careless handling of him in the 
years gone by. 

“ Ah, there ! ” said Lady Royd, with a coquettish, gentle 
laugh. “ Nance was talking not long ago of love and knight- 
hood and all that — the baby girl ! — and I rapped her over the 
knuckles with my fan. It’s a humdrum world we live in, Mr. 
Oliphant ; and, by that token, you will come in to supper before 
you carry on the news.” 

“Not even a mouthful and a glass of wine out here ; as for 
coming in to the meal I crave — why, I dare not do it, by your 
leave. Sleep is waiting so near to me, to trip me up in the 
middle of my errand.” 

She glanced at him, with the instinct that is never far from 
women to play the temptress. “ You look so tired,” she said 
gently. “ Surely your news will wait ? A warm hearth, Mr. 
Oliphant, and the meal you need ” 

“ You said just now that house walls and food and drink 
were of little consequence — unless you had strong hands about 
you.” 

“ But you’re strong of your hands already. And I am 
weak.” 

“Yes,” said Oliphant, “ passably strong; but it is each man 
to his trade, my lady. The hands I need — they greet me on 
the uplands, when my horse and I are so tired out that it is 
laughable. We get up into the roomy moors — our business lies 
in that sort of country — and the curlews go crying, crying, as 
if their sorrow could not rest since a Stuart once was martyred. 
And we gather up our courage, my horse and I.” 

“ You men,” she broke in fretfully — “ your thoughts run al- 
ways up the hills. And you find only the old feuds — a Stuart 
martyred near a hundred years ago, a king who’s earth and 


212 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


bone-dust by this time, as we shall be one day. It matters so 
little, Mr. Oliphant, when we come to the end of our lives — to 
the end of our singing-time.” 

Oliphant of Muirhouse had learned the hardest of life’s les- 
sons — a broad and catholic simplicity; and in the learning he 
had gained an added edge to the temper that now was lithe as 
steel. “ King Charles is neither earth nor bone-dust,” he said 
pleasantly “ He is — alive, my lady, and he knows that we 
remember.'” 

“Remembrance? What of that?” asked the other lazily. 
“ Just last year’s rose-leaves, sir, with the faded scent about 
them. By your leave, Mr Oliphant, I thought you more work- 
manlike and modern.” 

It was Rupert who broke in. “ Remember ? ” he said storm- 
ily. “ My father taught me just that word, when he used to 
come up into the nursery long ago, and play with us. He did 
not know then how — how like God’s fool I was to grow up, 
and he would tell me tales of Charles the First, how likeable 
and kingly he was always ; how he’d have been glad to take his 
crown off, and live like a country gentleman, following field- 
sports all the day, and coming back to the wife and bairns he 
loved, to spend long evenings with them.” 

Oliphant of Muirhouse felt pity stir about him. This lad — 
with the simplicity of one who was seeing far back along the 
years, scarce knowing that he was speaking his thoughts aloud 
— was a figure to rouse any thinking man’s attention. He was 
so good a soldier wasted. 

“ Then father would tell me,” went on Rupert, the passion 
deepening in his voice, “ how the King was asked to leave it 
all ; how he could have saved his life, if he had given his Faith 
in exchange, and how he would not yield. And then — father 
made it all so plain to me — the King went out from Whitehall, 
one bitter January day, and the scaffold and the streets were 
thick with snow, and he went with a grave, happy face, as if he 
had many friends about him. And he knelt awhile at the 
scaffold in decent prayer; and then he turned to Bishop Juxon, 


THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH 213 

and said, ‘ Remember ! ’ And then — black Cromwell had his 
way of him, for a little while.” 

“ My dear, that is past history,” protested Lady Royd, with 
petulant dislike of sorrow. “ Of course he died well, and, to 
be sure, the snow must have added to his great discomfort; 
but we live in other times.” 

“ No ! ” said Oliphant, sharp as a bugle-call. “ We live in 
the same times, my lady. The way of men’s hearts does not 
change. I’m tired, and not so young as I was ; but your son 
has marshalled all my courage up.” 

So then Rupert stood aside. His chivalry and hero-worship, 
like his love for Nance, were too delicate as yet, for lack of 
drill ; and he was ashamed that Oliphant of Muirhouse should 
praise his littleness. 

“ Mr. Oliphant,” said Lady Royd, with her roguish, faded 
laugh, “ you’re like the rest of my daft men-folk ; you are all 
for remembrance of the days behind ” 

“ Yes. We take a few steps back, the better to leap for- 
ward. That is the strict method of leaping any five-barred 
gate. There’s been so much surmise about that riddle of ‘ Re- 
member,’ and Rupert here has made it plain to me for the first 
time.” 

“ ‘ Out of the mouths of babes,’ ” said Rupert’s mother, with 
a flippancy that was born of this long idleness at Windy- 
hough, the long anxiety for the safety of her husband, whom, 
in some muddled way, she loved. 

“ He is no babe, by your leave. He is nearly a proven man, 
my lady, and I think God finds no better praise than that for 
any of us.” 

It was all quick in the saying, this talk of folk who heard 
disaster sing down the bitter wind ; but Nance, looking on and 
seeking some forward grip of life since Will Underwood had 
fallen by the way, was aware that Rupert had sounded the 
rally-call when all seemed lost. He was no longer scholarly, 
unpractical ; from the background, with the murky gloaming 
round him, he was a figure dominant among them. And from 


214 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


that background he stepped forward, lightly, with self-assur- 
ance, because there was no pageantry about this game of sor- 
row, but only the quick need to take hold of the every-day rou- 
tine of hardship. 

“ It might happen that the retreat came up by way of Win- 
dyhough ? ” he asked, straightening the scholarly stoop of his 
shoulders. 

Oliphant looked gravely at him — measured him, with an eye 
trained to quick judgment of a man — and dared not lie to this 
son of Sir Jasper’s who stayed here among the women, seeking 
better work. “ There’s no chance of it,” he said gruffly. 
“ They are taking the Langton road. I — I am sorry, Rupert. 
I wish the thick of it were coming this way. You’re in need 
of exercise, my lad.” 

And Rupert laughed suddenly. “ Mr. Oliphant,” he said, 
with his quiet, disarming humour, “ I’ve had drill enough — a 
useless sort of drill — and I’m praying these days for assault, 
and musketry, and siege — anything to save us stay-at-homes 
from sleep.” 

Oliphant looked down at the years of his own misshapen 
boyhood, saw himself a weakling, unproven, hidden by the 
mists of his own high desires. And he gripped Rupert’s hand, 
said farewell to Lady Royd, and got to saddle. 

“ Is that all ? ” asked Rupert, with sharp, disconsolate dis- 
may. “ Take me with you, sir. There’s a broken-winded 
horse or two still left in stable.” 

“ I obey orders,” snapped Oliphant, with brusque command. 
“ You will do no less, and Sir Jasper was exact in his wish that 
you should guard the women here.” 

Rupert was sick at heart, restless to be in the open, lest faith 
and courage were killed outright by these stifled days at Win- 
dyhough. 

“ They’re safe, you tell me,” he said, yielding to the queer, 
gusty temper that few suspected in him. “ Then I’m free to 
hreathe again. With you, or without you, I shall join the 
Rising at long last.” 


THE TALE COMES TO WIN1DYHOUGH 


215 


Oliphant’s heart went out to the mettle of this ill-balanced, 
stormy lad. For there are many who are keen to follow vic- 
tory at the gallop; but Oliphant was a man who knew his 
world — knew it through all its tricks of speech and manner — 
and he had met few who were eager to ride out along the un- 
sung, unhonoured road where retreat goes slowly through the 
mire. 

“ You know what this retreat means? ” he asked, in the same 
sharp tones, as if on parade. “ Sullen men, and sullen roads, 
and north-east winds that cut the heart out of a man’s body? 
Hard-bitten soldiers find it devilish hard to follow, Rupert — 
and there are the pipes, too, to reckon with. These daft High- 
land bodies will ever go playing 4 The Flowers of the Forest,’ 
till the pity of it goes up and down the wind, like Rachel seek- 
ing for strayed children. It is all made up of emptiness and 
sorrow, I tell you, this road from Derby.” 

“ I should go from worse emptiness and sorrow, here at 
Windyhough,” said Rupert stubbornly. “ I fear house-walls, 
Mr. Oliphant, and the foulest road would seem easy-going ” 

Oliphant broke sharply in. This was his own feeling, but 
it was not the time to give sympathy to Sir Jasper’s heir. 
“ You come of a soldier-stock, lad. You want to learn sol- 
diery one day? Well, you’ll learn it — I’ve trust absolute in 
that — and you begin to-night.” 

“ Then I’ll go saddle,” said Rupert, eager to try a second 
fall from horse again. 

“ No, by your leave ! ” snapped Oliphant. “ You’ll play sen- 
try here. Your orders are precise. You guard the house and 
women, as Sir Jasper bade you.” 

“ Because Sir Jasper knew that no assault would come,” said 
Rupert, with a return of the old heartache. “ You leave me 
as you found me, sir — a toy soldier guarding a house that could 
only tempt fools to capture it.” 

Oliphant straightened himself, clicked his heels together. 
His voice was tired and husky, but precise. “ Your officer 
commands. You obey, What else? Men do not question at 


216 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


these times.” Then, with sudden understanding of the man he 
had to deal with — with some remembrance of his own rebel- 
lious and lonely boyhood — Oliphant stood, rugged and uncom- 
promising, a lean, hard six-foot-two of manhood. “ To your 
post, sentry ! ” he said sharply. 

And Rupert found his heart leap out to the command. In- 
stinctively — because breed shapes us all — he lost the scholarly 
stoop of shoulders, lost his ill-temper and loneliness. He sa- 
luted stiffly. And Oliphant got to horse, and was riding, slowly 
forward, when Lady Royd ran to his saddle. 

“ I have the most dismaying curiosity, Mr. Oliphant,” she 
said, lifting the pretty, faded face that would always keep its 
charm. “ It is the woman’s curse, they tell us. What did 
King Charles mean when he said ‘ Remember’? We’ve been 
guessing at the riddle for a hundred years or so, and it still 
baffles us.” 

Oliphant glanced up at the roomy hills, at the red snow- 
gloaming that was dying slowly round their crests. “ What 
did he mean — that day he went to death? No words could 
tell you. It was something high, and strong, and lasting, like 
your moors up there.” 

“ Oh, no ; that could not be. He was so full of courtesy, so 
gentle — so like the warm south-country I left long ago. King 
Charles, sir, was never like these hills that frighten me.” 

Oliphant looked down at her, with some pity and a great 
chivalry. “ You hold the woman’s view of him,” he said, with 
the simplicity inborn in him. “ As a man sees him, Lady Royd, 
he did what few among us could. His wife and bairns were 
pulling him back from the scaffold — and he loved them; his 
ease, his love of life, his fear of the unknown — all were against 
him. He could have saved the most comely head in England, 
and would not, because his faith was stubborn. By your leave, 
I bow my head when the thought of Martyred Charles goes by 
me. 

Lady Royd looked at this man, so hard of body, so tired and 
resolute. “ I thought you practical, Mr. Oliphant.” 


THE TALE COMES TO' WINJDYHOUGH 217 

“ None more so. I’m a Scotsman,” he put in, with a laugh 
that struck no discordant note. “ If it had not been for King 
Charles, I should not be here — riding evil roads as if I danced 
a pleasant measure.” 

“ You’re beyond me, sir; but then, men always were. They 
never seem to rest ; and when the wind blows keenest, they run 
out into it, as if it were warmer than the fireside.” 

“ And there the secret’s out. That was King Charles’s mean- 
ing when he bade all Christian royalists remember. It was 
your son who explained it all to me just now.” 

“ Ah, Rupert! The poor boy dreams too much. You’re in- 
dulgent, Mr. Oliphant.” 

They fell silent, as people do when feeling throbs and stirs 
about them like thunder that is brewing up, but will not break. 
And Oliphant, out of this thunder-weather that he knew by 
heart, found sudden intuition. Sir Jasper’s wife had not fol- 
lowed him to learn what the last message meant of a King dead 
these hundred years ; she had sought cover, as women do when 
they are harassed, had waited till she found courage to ask the 
question that was nearest to her heart. 

“You’re thinking of your husband, Lady Royd?” he said, 
with blunt assurance. “ I shall see him' soon, if all goes well, 
and I shall tell him — what ? ” 

Women undoubtedly are as Heaven made them, a mystery 
past man’s understanding. Lady Royd, deep in her trouble, 
chose this moment to remember how Sir Jasper had wooed 
her as a girl — chose to grow younger on the sudden, to carry 
that air of buoyancy and happiness which makes the tired 
world welcome all daft lovers. “ You’ve read my heart, sir, 
in some odd way. My husband — I cannot tell you what he 
means to me. I was not bred to soldiery. I — I hated the 
sword he carried out with him, because sharp steel has always 
been a nightmare to me, and he was cruel when he bade me 
buckle it on for him.” 

“ As God sees us, he was kind,” broke in Oliphant, moved 
by extreme pity for this spoiled wife who had fallen on evil 


218 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


days. “ He loves you. The summons came. It was for 
your sake — yours, do you not understand? — that he kept faith 
with the Prince.” 

“ For my sake — he could have stayed at home. I — I needed 
him. I told him so.” 

Oliphant was so tired that even compassion could not 
soften the rough edge of his temper. “ And if he’d 
stayed? You would have liked your tame cat about the 
house? You’d have fussed over him and petted him — but 
you’d never in this life have found the medicine to cure his 
shame.” 

“ Oh, there ! ” said the other fretfully. “ You worship 
honour. It is always honour with you men who need excuse 
for riding far away from home.” 

“ Honour ? ” snapped Oliphant, eager again for the relief 
of miry roads and sadddle-soreness. “ It is the Prince’s 
watchword. His heart is broken — or near to it — and honour 
is the one light left him. It keeps him gay, my lady, through 
fouler trouble than you or I have strength to face. And so 
— good-night, I think.” 

“ No, no! We must not part like this. I — I am so foolish, 
Mr. Oliphant — and you are angry ” 

“ Your pardon,” he said, with quick and gay compunction. 
“ It was my temper — my accursed temper. I’m too tired just 
now to keep a tight rein on the jade.” 

“ Ah, there! You were always generous. It is a quality 
that keeps men lean, I notice.” She looked him up and down, 
again with the hint of coquetry that became her well. “ It 
is a gallant sort of leanness, after all. For myself, I’m 
growing — a little plump, shall we say ? ” 

“ More graceful in the outline than myself. I was always 
a figure to scare corbie-crows away with.” 

Sir Jasper’s wife, from the depth of her own trouble, knew 
how weary and in need of solitude he was. She wondered 
that he could keep up this game of ball — nice coquetry and 
chiselled answer — when all the sky was red about the moor 


THE TALE COMES TO) WINDYHOUGH 219 

up yonder, and all the hazard of retreat was singing at their 
ears. 

“ You will see my husband soon ? ” she said softly. “ I — I 
have a message for him ” 

“ My trade lies that way. You can trust me with it.” 

“ You may tell him that I — I miss him, sir; and if he seems 
to miss me, too — why, go so far as to say that my heart is 
aching.” 

Oliphant, moved by a gust of feeling, stooped to her hand. 
“ I never had a wife, myself. God was not kind that way. 
I’ll take your message, and Sir Jasper will forget the miry 
roads, I think.” 

He rode out, a trim, square-shouldered figure, carrying 
hardship as a man should. And Lady Royd, because he re- 
minded her of the husband whose memory was very fragrant 
now, went down to the gate, and watched horse and rider 
merge into the gloaming. And, long after they were out of 
sight, she stood and listened to the tip-tap of hoofs, faint and 
ever fainter, down and up the track that was taking Oliphant 
along his road of every-day, hard business. 

Behind her, Rupert and Nance Demaine were standing, fac- 
ing each other with mute dismay. Without knowing that 
they were eavesdroppers, they had heard Lady Royd’s voice, 
with its half-pleasant note of querulousness, and the rider’s 
low, tired answers to her questions. And they had not heeded 
overmuch — for each was busy with the ill news brought from 
Derby — until, merciless, exact, they heard across the court- 
yard Oliphant’s rough, “ And if he’d stayed ? You would 
have liked your tame cat about the house ? ” 

Nance had looked sharply up at Rupert, had seen his 
soldierly, straight air desert him, and she understood. 

“ My dear,” she said, broken up by sharp sympathy, “ he 
— he did not mean that you ” 

“ So you, too, fit the fool’s cap on ? I’m going indoors, 
Nance — to my post, to find Simon Foster. 

He was hard hit; and the strength of the fathers stiffened 


220 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


his courage, now in the hour of shame, so that he was almost 
gay. And Nance could make nothing of this mood of his, 
because she was born a woman, and he a man. 

“ You always brought your troubles to me, Rupert,” she 
pleaded, laying a hand on his sleeve. 

“ Yes, till they grew too big for you. And now — why, 
Nance, I think I’ll shoulder them myself.” 

He seemed to stand far away, not needing her. It seemed, 
rather, in this moment of despair, that she went in need of 
him. Will Underwood had deserted her, had trodden her 
first love underfoot; she was bruised and tired; and the Ris- 
ing news was wintry as her loneliness. 

Rupert, his voice firm again, turned at the porch. “ Good- 
night, Nance,” he said, with the gaiety that hurt her. “ You 
may sleep well — the tame cat guards the house, my dear.” 

There was bitterness and heartache about this house of 
Windyhough. The wind would not be still, and men’s sor- 
rows would not rest. And the stark moor above lay naked 
to the wintry moon, and shivered underneath her coverlet of 
sleet. 

Nance, by and by, followed Rupert indoors, and went into 
the parlour, with its scent of last year’s rose-leaves, its pretty, 
useless ornaments, its air of stifled luxury, warring with the 
ruddy gloaming light that strode down from the moors and 
peeped through every window, as if to spy out the shams 
within doors. 

She sat down to the spinet, and touched a mellow, tender 
chord or two; and then, because needs must, she found relief 
in song. Her singing voice was like herself, dainty, well- 
found, full of deep cadences where tenderness and laughter 
lurked. It was no voice to take the town by storm, but one 
to hearten men, when they came in from the open, against 
the next day’s warfare. And she sang Stuart songs, with 
a little lilt of sorrow in them, because of Oliphant’s news 
from Derby and because of Will Underwood’s sadder retreat 
from honour, and hoped somehow that Rupert would hear her 


THE TALE COMES TO WINjDYHOUGH 221 

and come to her, because she needed him. He was so fond 
of ballads — those, most of all, that had the Stuart constancy 
about them — and Nance was sure that she could entice him 
down, could sing some little of his evil mood away from him. 

Instead, as she halted with her fingers on the keys, she 
heard Rupert tramping overhead, and Simon Foster’s heavy 
footfall, as they went their round of what, in irony and bit- 
terness, they named the defences. 

“ This loophole covers the main door, Simon,” she heard 
Rupert say, with his tired laugh. “ In case of a direct at- 
tack from the front, I station myself here with six muskets 
aim sure and quickly, picking my man carefully each time, 
and disorder them by making them think we are in force.” 

“ That’s so, master,” growled Simon. “ And while you’re 
busy that way, I make round to the left wing, and get a few 
shots in from there across the courtyard. “ Oh, dangment ! ” 
he broke off. “We have it all by heart, and there’s only one 
thing wanting — the attack itself. I’m nigh wearied o’ this 
bairn’s play, I own. It puts me i’ mind, it does, of Hunter- 
comb Fair, last October as ever was.” 

“What happened there?” asked Rupert, as if the other’s 
slow, unhurried humour were a welcome respite. 

“ Well, they were playing a terrible fine piece where soldiers 
kept coming in, and crossing th’ stage, till you counted ’em 
by scores. But, after I’d seen what was to be seen, I went 
out ; and I happened to go round by the back o’ the booth, and 
I saw how it was done. There were just five soldiers, mas- 
ter — one was Thomas Scatterty’s lad, I noticed, who’s said 
to run away from a sheep if it bleats at him — and these 
durned five, why, they went in at one end o’ the booth, and 
marched across th’ stage, and out a t’other end. Then they 
ran round at th’ back, and in again ; and so it went on, like, 
till th’ sweat fair dripped from them, what with hurrying in 
and out.” 

Nance, listening idly, could hear that low, recurrent laugh 
of Rupert’s — the laugh that was tired, and hid many troubles. 


222 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Yes, Simon, yes,” he said, with high disdain of himself 
and circumstance, “ it is all very like Huntercomb Fair ; but 
at Huntercomb they had the jostling crowd, the lights, the 
screech of the fiddles. Here at Windyhough we have — just 
silence — a silence so thick and damnable, Simon, that Fm 
praying for a gale, and fallen chimney-stacks, and the wind 
piping through the broken windows.” 

“ Aye, you were ever a dreamer. The dreamers are all for 
speed, and earthquakes, and sudden happenings. Life as it’s 
lived, master, doesn’t often gallop. It creeps along, like, same 
as ye and me are doing, and keeps itself alive for fear of 
starving, and gets up, some durned way or another, for th’ 
next day’s work. Well, have we done, like, or must we finish 
this lad’s game?” 

And then Nance heard a sharper note in Rupert’s voice. 
She had heard it once before, that day he fought with his 
brother on the moor because he thought her honour was in 
question. “ We finish, Simon. What else?” 

“ Now you’re at your faith again, master. I can hear it 
singing like a throstle. Well, I’m a plain man myself, ask- 
ing plain proof. Just as man to man — and want o’ respect 
apart — has your pretty, gentleman’s faith done much for 
you?” 

“ Yes,” said Rupert, unexpectedly. “ It has given me pluck 
to see this business through. A houseful of women and 
cripples — my father taking all the burden on his shoulders 
while I skulk at home — dear God! I’d be in a coward’s 
grave by now, Simon, if faith had not stood by me.” 

“ Then there’s summat in it, after all ? ” 

“ It is powder in the musket,” said Rupert, as if there could 
be no further argument. “ No more, no less. But you and 
I, Simon, have to find the spark that fires it.” 

Nance heard them pass overhead, heard the sound of 
Simon’s heavy boots die along the corridor. And she turned 
again to the spinet, and her fingers moved up and down the 
keys, their colour mellowed by long service, and played ran- 


THE TALE COMES TOi WINpDYHOUGH 223 

dom melodies that were in keeping with her thoughts — not 
Stuart airs, because these asked always sacrifice, and the big 
heart, and the royal laugh that comes when things go wrong 
in this world. 

Nance was too tired to-night for the adventurous road. 
To-morrow she would be herself again, eager, resolute, pre- 
pared for the day’s journey. But just now she needed the 
sleep, that stood far away from her ; needed some charitable, 
firm voice to tell her she was foolish and unstrung ; needed 
Rupert, as she had not guessed that she could lack any man. 
And Rupert had tramped overhead, concerned with make- 
believe defences. 

“ Oh, he does not care ! ” she said, believing that she hated 
him. “ Simon Foster, crippled in both legs, and musty loop- 
holes, and powder that he’ll never use — they’re more to him: 
than all this heartbreak gathering over Windyhough.” 

Into the scented room, with its candles shining from their 
silver sconces, Lady Royd came, tremulous and white of face, 
from watching Oliphant of Muirhouse ride out. 

“ Nance, my dear, I — I am tired,” she said. 

“ I think we all are,” Nance answered, rising from the 
spinet with a deference that had no heart in it. 

“ Oh, you’re querulous, and so am I,” said the other, with 
a shrewd glance at the girl’s face. “ If our men could see 
us now — our men who fight for us — they would be aston- 
ished, Nance. We’re so little like their dreams of us. You 
in a bad temper, and I ready to cry if a mouse threatened 
me, and our men, God bless them ! thinking only of old Eng- 
land, and our beautiful bright eyes, Nance — your eyes and 
mine — just red, my dear, if you’ll forgive me, with the tears 
men think our luxury.” 

Nance, made up of hill-rides, and free winds, and charity, 
looked quietly at Lady Royd, read some fellowship in the 
pretty, faded face. “ I have — a few griefs of my own,” she 
said, with the sudden penitence that was always like April’s 
sunshine after rain. “ I forgot that you had yours.” 


224 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


The older woman grasped Nance’s hand, and held it, and 
looked into the young, faithful eyes. She needed youth just 
now; for she felt that she was growing old. 

“ Nance, he is out with the Rising. And they’ve retreated. 
And — and, girl, when you come to my age, and have a hus- 
band and a son who will go fighting for high causes — oh, 
you’ll know, Nance, how one’s heart aches till it goes near to 
breaking.” 

“ You will tell me,” said Nance, laying a gentle hand on 
the other’s arm. 

And Lady Royd looked gravely at her for a moment, 
through the tears that lay thick about the babyish, blue eyes. 
And then she laughed — with gallantry and tiredness, as Ru- 
pert had laughed not long ago when he listened to Simon 
Foster’s tale of Huntercomb Fair. 

“ My dear, I should be glad to tell you — if I could. How 
should I find words? Fve loved him for more than six-and- 
twenty years, Nance, and guessed as much long since, but was 
never sure of it till he rode out. And now — he’s in the thick 
of danger, and I cannot go to him.” 

“ He is happy,” said Nance, with stormy wish to help this 
woman, stormy grasp of the courage taught her by the hills. 
“ Our men are bred that way ; they are happiest when they’re 
like to lose their necks — in the hunting-field, or on Tower 
Hill, or wherever the good God wills. I think Sir Jasper is 
happjer than you or I.” 

“ That is true.” Lady Royd made the most of her slender 
height. She she learning the way of royalty at last, after 
Sir Jasper had tried patiently to teach it to her all these 
years. “And I? My heart is breaking, Nance; but I’ll 
carry my wounds as — as he would carry his. They’re in re- 
treat, I tell you, and — and we shall not meet again, I think — 
I, and the husband whom I love.” 

“ Oh, you will meet — and — and, if not ” said Nance, 

with that nice handling of high faith and common sense which 
made her charm so human and so likeable — “ you love him, 


THE TALE COMES TO WINiDYHOUGH 


225 


and his one thought is for you; and Rupert would tell you 
that death is so little, after all.” 

“ I suppose it is,” said Lady Royd, with a petulant shrug 
of the shoulders ; “ but it is tiresome of you, Nance, to remind 
one of the end of all things pleasant. Oh, by your leave, my 
dear, no talk of faith! I’ve had no other food to live on 
these last months, and I need a change of diet, girl, need — 
just my man’s arms about me, and his voice bidding me take 
heart again. I tell you, we’re not strong, we women, without 
our men to help us.” 

Nance remembered her liking for Will Underwood, the 
shameful end of it; remembered Rupert, tramping overhead 
not long ago with Simon Foster and disdaining all the songs 
that should have brought him to her side. And her grasp of 
life grew firmer on the sudden. It was true, as spoiled, way- 
ward Lady Royd had said, that women, since the world’s be- 
ginning, need the strong arms of their men about them. 

Simon Foster, meanwhile, had done his round of the house, 
had said good-night to Rupert; and afterwards he had gone 
down to the kitchens, his step like a lover’s. He did not find 
Martha there, and answered the sly banter of the women-serv- 
ants by saying that he needed to cross to the mistals, to see 
how the roan cow, that was sick of milk-fever, was faring. 

“ You’ll find Martha there,” said a pert scullery-maid ; “ and 
I’m sorry for the roan cow, Simon.” 

“ And why ? ” asked Simon, tired long since of all women 
except one. 

“ Well, you alone — or Martha alone — you’re kindly with all 
ailments. But, put the two o’ you together — within kissing 
distance — and the roan cow must learn to bellow if she needs 
be heard.” 

Simon Foster turned about. He was the lone man fighting 
for his liberty. “ I’m fair blanketed with women these days,” 
he growled. “ Their file, daft ways go meeting a plain man at 
every turning of the stairs.” 


226 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ One maid’s file, daft ways have sent your wits astray, 
Simon,” purred his adversary. 

Simon straightened his bent shoulders. The young light 
was in his eyes again. He looked comely; for a man at bay 
shows always the qualities that are hidden by sleek prosperity. 
“Well, yes,” he said; “but Martha happens to be worth 
twenty of you silly kitchen wenches — that’s why I chose her.” 

The pert maid took up a clout from the table, aimed it at 
Simon, and missed him by three feet or so. 

“ The master could teach you a lesson,” he chuckled. 
“ We’ve been up the pastures these days, shooting. And 
master has got a bee in his bonnet, like, about this gunshot 
business. ‘ Simon,’ he says to me, no further back than yes- 
terday, ‘ there’s nothing matters, except to see straight and 
to aim straight. We may be needed by and by.’ ” 

It was so that Simon got away, and went out a conqueror 
for his little moment, because he had silenced the strife of 
women’s tongues. Across the darkness of the mistal-yard 
a lanthorn came glimmering fitfully, as Martha crossed from 
the byres to the house. 

“Well, Martha?” said Foster, striding into the flickering 
belt of light. 

“Well, Simon?” she answered, without surprise. She was 
no lass in her teens, to think that grown men welcome fright ; 
and so she did not scream, sudden as his intrusion was. 

“ I’ve been thinking, lass.” 

“ And so have I. The roan cow is easier, thanks to me ; 
and all the while I put the salt-bags on, and cosseted her, 
and teased her back to health, I thought a deal, Simon.” 

“ What, of me ? ” he asked, with a sprightly air. 

An owl, far down the sloping fields, sounded her call as 
she swooped to kill rats and field-mice for her larder. And 
Martha, though the light from her lantern was dim enough 
to hide it, could not forego a touch of coquetry. 

“Of you?” she laughed, setting a finger to her dimpled 


THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH 227 

cheek. “ Hark to yond owl. You’re all alike, you hunting- 
folk; you’ve the masterful, sharp voice with you.” 

“ Seems somebody has got to be masterful these days. I’ve 
driven sheep to market, and I’ve tried to drive pigs, and I’ve 
handled skew-tempered horses; but for sheer, daft contrari- 
ness, give me a houseful o’ women, with few men to guide 
em. 

“You’re not liking women these days?” said Martha 
tartly. 

“ Aye, by ones or twos. It’s when they swarm about a 
house, like a hive o’ bees, that lone men get feared, like, o’ 
your indoor fooleries. Anyway, Martha, I wish I were out 
with Sir Jasper — just as Master Rupert does.” 

“ And you talked of — of liking me — not so very long since.” 

“ Aye, and meant it ; but how’s a man to find speech wi’ 
the one lass he wants, when yard and kitchen’s filled wi’ 
women he’s never a need for?” 

“ Well, that’s how I feel,” said Martha, unexpectedly. 
“ Women are made that way, Simon ; they’re silly when they 
herd too thick together.” 

“ There’s like to be a change before so very long,” put in 
the other hurriedly, as if he talked of the next day’s ride to 
market. “ It seems this bonnie Prince they make such a 
crack of has turned back from Derby. And we’re near the 
line they’ll take, Martha; and, please God, there’s a chance 
the fight will come Windyhough way.” 

“ And you’ll be killed, Simon ? ” she said, coming so close 
to him that the horn-top of her lantern scorched his hand. 

“ Maybe not. There’s two sides go to a killing, same as to 
a bargain. It might happen, like, that t’other lad went 
down.” 

“But what of me, Simon, if — if it chanced otherwise?” 

“ I’m not meaning to let it chance otherwise, my lass. 
I’ve you to think of these days.” And then he drew apart, 
after the fashion of men when war is in the air. “ Master 


228 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Rupert shapes gradely,” he said. “ I always said he had 
the makings of a soldier in him.” 

“ ! Oh, he’s a scholar,” said Martha. “ I like him well 
enough — we all do — but he wears his head i’ the clouds, 
Simon.” 

“ Tuts ! He’s never had his chance. You’re all for young 
Master Maurice ; he’s stronger and more showy, as second 
bairns are apt to be; but gi’e me the young master’s settled 
pluck.” 

“ Gi’e me,” said Martha, with bewildering tenderness, “ the 
end of all this Rising trouble, and us two in a farm, together, 
wi’ a churn to work at, and an ingle-nook to sit by when the 
day’s work is over wi’. I’d not sell that farm I’ve dreamed 
of, Simon, for all your bonnie Prince’s love-locks.” 

“ Well, as for love-locks,” said the other, his thoughts still 
busier with war than peace, “ he has none so many left these 
days. He’s a plain man, riding troubled roads ; and he car- 
ries himself like a man, they say, or near thereby.” 

Martha lifted her lanthorn suddenly to his face. “ Aye. 
you carry the ‘ far’ look,” she said jealously. “ Cattle i’ the 
byre, the quiet lowing o’ them, and a hearth-place warm and 
ready for ye — they’re windle-straws to ye just now, my lad.” 

And Simon laughed. “ I’d like one straight-up fight, I 
own, before I settle down. It’s i’ the blood, ye see. I car- 
ried a pike i’ the last Rising, and killed one here and there, 
and took my wounds. A man no way forgets, Martha, the 
young, pleasant days. And there’s danger near the house, if 
all Mr. Oliphant said be true.” 

“ Well, gang in and meet it, then,” snapped Martha, “ if 
your stiffened joints will let you.” 

She was sore with jealousy, though Simon’s battle-hunger 
was her only rival, and struck at random, cruelly, as women 
do at these times, because God made them so. And Simon, 
because men are made so, winced, and recovered, and said 
never a w6rd as he crossed to the kitchen door. 

“ Simon ! ” she called, with late-found penitence. 


THE TALE COMES TO WINDYHOUGH 229 

He did not turn his head, but strode indoors, through the 
running banter that met him by the way, and went upstairs to 
find Rupert standing by the loophole that overlooked the main 
doorway. 

“At your post, master ?” he said dryly. 

Rupert turned sharply. “ You disturbed a dream of mine,” 
he said, in his well-bred, scholarly voice. “ I was fancying 
men were out in the moonlit courtyard, that I aimed straight, 
Simon, and shot a few of those black rats from Hanover.” 

Simon chuckled soberly. He liked to hear his favourite 
lapse from the orderly speech that was his usual habit. 

“ They’ll come, sure enough,” he said gruffly. “ We’ve 
waited over-long, you and me, to miss some chance o’ frolic 
at the last.” 

Rupert, with his large, royal air, disdaining always the lean, 
scholarly form he carried, laughed gently. “ My faith is 
weak to-night, Simon. So little happens, and God knows I’ve 
prayed for open battle.” 

“ Well, bide,” said Simon. “ I’ve my own fancy, too, 
though I was never what you might call a prayerful man, that 
the battle’s coming up this way. My old wounds are plaguing 
me, master, like to burn me up; and you may say it’s th’ 
change i’ the weather, if it pleases ye, but I think different.” 

Rupert welcomed the other’s guarded prophecy, for to- 
night he needed hope. And he fell again to looking through 
the loophole on to the empty, moonlit courtyard; and sud- 
denly, from the far side of the house, he heard Nance’s voice 
again, as she tried to sing a little of Lady Royd’s heart- 
sickness away. 

The voice, so low and strong and charitable, the thought 
of her face, her brown, waving hair, her candid eyes, struck 
Rupert with intolerable pain and sense of loss. He recalled 
the years when he should have been up and doing, winning his 
spurs like other men. His shy, half-ironic, half-scholarly 
aloofness from the life of every day showed as a thing con- 
temptible. He magnified his shortcomings, accused himself 


230 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


of cowardice, not physical cowardice, but moral. All these 
years, while his love for Nance was growing, he should have 
been conquering the weakness that separated him from his 
fellows, should have been climbing the steep path of hard- 
ship, training himself to be strong as his passion for Nance 
Demaine. 

To-night, as he thought of these things, he understood, 
to the last depth, this love that possessed him utterly. It was 
a soldier’s love, a strong man’s. It was content to forgo, 
content to watch and guard and work, so long as Nance was 
happy, though to himself it brought tumult and unrest 
enough. The keen, man’s longing to claim her for his own, 
to take her out of reach of such as Will Underwood, had 
given him many an evil day and night; but through it all, 
unconquerable, had come that strong, chivalrous desire to keep 
her feet from the puddles and the mire of life, to serve her 
hand and foot, and afterwards, since he was needful to her 
in no other way, to stand by and watch her happiness from 
some shadowed corner. 

There was all his life’s training, all the tenor of his long, 
boyhood’s thoughts, in this fine regard he brought Squire 
Demaine’s daughter. There was, too, the Stuart training 
that had deepened the old Royd instincts given him. at birth. 
It was, in part, the devotion he would have given a queen 
if he had been her cavalier; and, through it all, there went 
that silver skein of haplessness and abnegation bravely born, 
which is in thexwoof and weft of all things Stuart. He knew 
the unalterable strength and beauty of his love; and, with a 
sudden overmastering shame, he saw himself — himself, unfit 
to join the Rising, useless and a stay-at-home, beside this 
other picture of his high, chivalrous regard for Nance. He 
laughed bitterly. It was grotesque, surely, that so fine a pas- 
sion should be in charge of such a weakling. 

And then, from the midst of his humiliation and pain, he 
plucked courage and new hope. It was his way, as it had been 
his father’s. If this dream of his came true — if the retreat 


THE TALE COME.S TO WINDYHOUGH 231 

swept up this way, as Simon hoped, and gave work into his 
hands — he would give Nance deeds at last. 

“ The night is not so empty as it was, Simon/’ he said, 
turning sharply. “ We’ll patrol the house.” 


CHAPTER XII 


THE GALLOP 

The retreat had moved up through Staffordshire and 
Cheshire, always evading the pursuit that followed it so 
closely from many separate quarters. The Highlanders had 
ever their hearts turned backward to the London road — the 
road of battle; but old habit made their feet move briskly 
along the route mapped out for them. They set the pace for 
the Lowland foot, less used to the swinging stride that was 
half a run ; and for this reason the Prince’s army went north- 
ward at a speed incredible to Marshal Wade, the Duke of 
Cumberland, and other heavy-minded generals who were 
eager in pursuit. 

There was irony in the whole sad business. A few cau- 
tious leaders of the clans apart, few men were anxious to 
succeed in this retreat. They would have welcomed any 
hindrance by the way that allowed one or more of the pur- 
suing armies to come up with them. Food was often lack- 
ing, because defeated folk are apt to find less wayside hospi- 
tality than conquerors ; their feet were sore from long con- 
tact with the wet roads, that both chafed and softened them ; 
yet their worst hardship was the need for battle that found no 
food to thrive on. Behind them Cumberland was cursing his 
luck because he could not catch them up ; yet, had he known 
it, he was the gainer by his failure. If he and his mixed com- 
pany of hirelings had met the Prince’s men just now, they 
would have been ridden through and through, as Colonel 
Gardiner’s men had been at Prestonpans in the first battle of 
the Rising. For the Highlander is sad and gusty as the mist- 
topped hills that cradled him; but when the mood is on him, 
when all seems lost, and he is gay because the odds are ludi- 

232 


THE GALLOP 


233 


crously against him, he goes bare-sark to the fight and accom- 
plishes what more stolid men name miracles. 

They went north — the men who wished to overtake and the 
men who yearned to be overtaken. And the luck was all with 
Marshal Wade and Cumberland, for the Prince’s army con- 
stantly evaded them. There are times, maybe, when God 
proves His gentlemen by the road of sick retreat, by denial 
of the fight they seek. But few win through this sort of 
hazard. 

Sir Jasper was leading his own little troop of gentry, yeo- 
men, and farmer-folk when they crossed the Cheshire border 
and made up into Lancashire, and neared the bluff heights 
that were his homeland. The wind was shrewd still from the 
north-east, and sleet was driving from the grey-black mist that 
swept the hill-tops, yet Sir Jasper, by the look of the shrouded 
hills, by the smell of the wind in his teeth, knew that he was 
home again in Lancashire. Love of women is a hazardous 
and restless enterprise, and a man’s leal liking for his friend 
is apt to be upset by jealousies; but love of the hills that can- 
not lie, love of the feel and scents and sounds of the country 
that he loves never desert the native-born. They are there, 
like a trusty dog, running eagerly before him when he is home 
again, biding on the threshold with a welcome if he chances 
to be absent. 

Until now Sir Jasper had been much with is men, had light- 
ened their spirits as best he could through this evil march 
toward reinforcements in which few believed. But now 
some wildness seemed to come to him from the windy moors 
that had bred him. He was tired of leading men against the 
emptiness that met them day by day, and remembered the 
lonely figure of his Prince, who was still obstinate, despite 
Captain Goldstein’s late attack, in riding often behind the rear- 
guard of his army. More than once, since leaving Derby, 
Sir Jasper had ridden back along the route, had found the 
Prince separated by a few hundred yards from the last of the 
stragglers, and had tarried with him, partly to be near if the 


234 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


danger which he seemed to court recurred, and partly because 
the close and friendly intimacy that was growing between 
them had a charm that lightened the trouble of the road. 

To-day, as they came nearer still to his own country — the 
march was planned to reach Langton by nightfall — Sir Jasper 
yielded to his restless mood. He turned to Maurice, who was 
riding at his bridle hand. 

“ Take our men forward, boy,” he said. “ I’ll join you by 
and by.” 

Maurice showed few traces of the high spirits that had 
set him galloping once after Nance Demaine in a race for 
the glove she was to forfeit if he caught her up, of the fiery 
eagerness with which he had fought his brother Rupert on the 
moor. He could not understand the reason of this turn about 
from Derby. Since childhood he had been used to find action 
ready to his hand, used to the open life of the fields, in saddle 
or with a gun under his arm ; and he was baffled by this slow, 
rain-sodden tramp over roads that led only to the next night’s 
bivouac. The constant rains, moreover, had increased his 
saddle-soreness and had given him a maddening toothache; 
and it is hard, at two-and-twenty, to bear any pain of body, 
apart from that associated with heroic wounds. 

“ I will take them forward, sir,” he answered moodily, 
“ though I’ve no gift of heartening them, as you have. If 
you promised me all Lancashire, I could not crack a jest with 
them just now.” 

Sir Jasper turned his head sharply, glanced at Maurice 
with the shrewd, steady eyes of middle age. “ You were not 
out in the ’15 Rising, lad,” he snapped. “ I was through it — 
and thirty years have gone under the bridge since then — and 
I’ve learned to wait. Waiting trains a man, I tell you.” 

“ Waiting has given me the most devilish toothache, sir.” 

And his father laughed. So had he felt himself when, 
long ago, an untried boy, he had shared the troubles of a dis- 
astrous Rising. “ There’s a worse malady,” he said dryly. 

“ None that I can think of at this moment.” 


THE GALLOP 


235 


“ Try heartache, Maurice — the Prince can tell you what 
that means. And I can tell you, maybe. It comes to older 
men, like gout. For the rest, you take your orders. You’re 
in command of our Lancashire lads till I return.” 

Maurice answered, not the words but the quiet hardihood 
of this father who had licked him into some semblance of a 
man. “ I’m in charge, sir — till you return,” he answered 
gravely. 

Sir Jasper drew apart, to the edge of the rising, heathery 
bank that flanked the road ; and he watched the horsemen and 
the foot go by. Highlanders passed him with bowed shoul- 
ders, moving like dullards who have forgotten hope ; for they 
had the temperament which does high deeds to set the world’s 
songs aflame, or which refuses hope of any sort. The Low- 
landers wore a grim and silent air, carrying disillusion with 
dourness and reserve. But grief was manifest in every 
face. 

Whether he died soon or late, Sir Jasper would not forget 
this long pageant of despair that went by him along the sod- 
den northward tracks. Five thousand men, with souls keen 
and eager, had been ready for the fight ; and they were march- 
ing north unsatisfied. Sir Jasper by habit, was careful of 
his tongue; but now he cursed Lord George Murray with 
quiet and resolute exactness. The wind was cold, and the 
sleet nipped his face; but the chilliest thing that he had met 
in life was this surrender of leal folk to such a man as Mur- 
ray. It was unbelievable, and he was compelled to take a 
new, firmer grip of the faith which had heartened him through 
lesser storms. 

The last of the army passed, and Sir Jasper sighed sharply 
as he reined his horse toward the south and looked for the 
one figure — the figure prominent among them all — that had 
been missing. And presently a solitary horseman came round 
the bend of the highway. He carried his shoulders square, 
his head erect; yet, under his royal disdain of circumstances, 
there was the Stuart sadness plainly marked. 


236 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


The Prince glanced up as he saw the other ride to meet 
him. “Ah! you, Sir Jasper,” he said quietly. “You 
were ever of my mind — to be where our soldiers need us 
most.” 

“ You give me too much praise,” began Sir Jasper, and 
could get no farther. 

The Prince and he were alone on this barren road — alone 
in the world, it seemed, comrades in the bitter sleet-time of 
adversity — and he was shaken by a sudden, desperate pity, 
by a loyalty toward this royal fugitive and a gladness that he 
was privileged to share a moment of defeat with him. He 
knew, to a heart-beat, what the other was suffering. They 
had the like aims, the like hardihood; and intuition taught 
them to be brothers, the older man and the young, here on 
the northern road. 

“ Your Highness, I have — I have no words,” he said at 
last. 

“ Ah, there ! ” said the Prince, with a gentleness that was 
cousin to abiding sorrow. “ I know what you would say. 
Best leave it unsaid.” 

They jogged up the road together in silence, each busy with 
thoughts that were the same. 

“ It is incredible,” growled Sir Jasper presently, as if the 
words escaped him unawares. 

The Prince shrugged his shoulders, with a touch of the 
French habit that still clung to him. “ But so is life, my 
friend — each day of it the most astounding muddle of sur- 
prises. They said I could not land in Scotland and bring an 
ill-trained army through the heart of England. I did it, 
by grace of God. And then we said that the road from 
Derby to the throne was open to us — and so it was, but for 
one obstacle we had forgotten.” 

“ Your Highness,” said the other, with sharp remembrance 
of the past, “ I could have removed that obstacle — and would 
not. I did not serve you well.” 

“ What ! removed the Highlanders’ gospel that they serve 


THE GALLOP 


237 


their own chieftain first and after that their king? With 
faith you might do it, sir — the faith that removes mountains ; 
but otherwise ” 

“ I had my lord Murray’s life at command — and — I did not 
take it.” 

The Prince’s face was hard when he heard the way of that 
duel in the wood. He was thinking not at all of pity and 
chivalrous scruples, but of the men entrusted to his care who 
had been routed by Murray’s prudent obstinacy. “ God for- 
give you, sir ! ” he said gravely. “ I wish you had not told 
me this. With Murray laid aside I should have had my way 
at Derby.” 

Sir Jasper peeped now behind the veil of that disastrous 
Council, guessed how disordered the party of retreat would 
have been without their leader. And he glanced at the 
Prince’s face — he who loved and had followed him into the 
unknown for sake of warm, unquestioning loyalty — and read 
only condemnation there. And because he was wearier than 
he knew, it seemed that all his strength and steadfastness 
were leaving him. Until now the cold and hardship had 
touched his body, but not the soul of him — the soul that passed 
sorrows through the mills of faith, and made forward battle- 
songs of them. 

His comrade in adversity glanced round on him suddenly, 
saw how hardly he was taking the rebuke. And the Prince, 
as his habit was, forgot the bitter might-have-beens and ral- 
lied to the help of one in need. 

“ Sir Jasper,” he said, with a grace boyish in its candour, 
“ we’re bred of the same stuff, you and I. We are hot and 
keen, and we hate — as far as the gallows, but not as far as 
the rope. It seems idle that one Stuart should chide another 
of the breed.” 

“ I served you ill,” said the other. “ He was known already 
as the weak link of the chain — and I did not snap it.” 

“ It would have lain on your conscience. You could not 
do it, that was all.” 


238 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ You are kind,” said Sir Jasper slowly — “ but you struck 
deep just now. I’ve feared many things in my time, but 
never once that I should fail the Stuart.” 

The Prince fumbled in the tail pocket of his riding-coat, 
took out a battered pipe, filled and lit it — with some difficulty, 
for the tinder in his box was none too dry. “ I’ve found 
three good things in my travels,” he said, blowing clouds of 
smoke about him — “ a dog, a pipeful of tobacco, and friends 
like yourself, Sir Jasper ; they seldom fail a man. I was hasty 
just now, for I was thinking of — of my Highlanders, God 
help them ! ” 

And again a silence fell between them as they rode up and 
down the winding road that lay now a short six miles from 
Langton. It was all odd and unexpected to Sir Jasper, this 
ride at a foot pace through the lonely, hill-girt lands that were 
his homeland. He was with the yellow-haired laddie who had 
painted dreams for him on the broad canvas of endeavour. 
And the dreams had had their end at Derby; and they were 
here, beaten men who looked each other in the face and 
were content to be together. 

“ You are oddly staunch, sir,” said the Prince by and by. 
“ It is good to meet a man in all this wilderness of sleet and 
cold arithmetic.” 

“ I was bred to be staunch, your Highness. My father 
taught me the way of it — and his father in the days before. 
There’s no credit to the tree because its roots happen to be 
planted deep.” 

The other smiled at Sir Jasper’s childlike statement of his 
case, as if it were a truth plain to all men. “ You’ve sons 
to follow you, I trust? They’ll be the better for training of 
that sort.” 

The wind blew in bitter earnest now against Sir Jasper’s 
face. All his love for Rupert, all his hidden shame that the 
heir could not ride out with him, were so many weights added 
suddenly to the burden he was carrying already. “ I have 
one son with me in the Rising,” he said gravely. “ I pre- 


THE GALLOP 239 

sented him to your Highness — at Langton, I think, when 
we rode south.” 

“ Why, yes.” The Prince seldom forgot a man’s record or 
his face. “ A ruddy, clean-built youngster, who went pale at 
sight of me, as if — as if, comrade, I were made of less com- 
mon clay than he. I remember him. He tried to stammer 
out some hero-worship, and I reminded him that his record 
was probably cleaner than my own, because the years had 
given him less chance of sinning. And he was shocked by 
my levity, I think. Yes, it was at Langton, just before the 
Vicar went up the street to ring his bells for me.” 

Once again Sir Jasper was surprised by this Prince’s close 
touch with the road of life as men follow it every day, his 
catholic, broad understanding of his fellows. It was the 
Stuart gift — the gift that had carried them to the throne or 
to the scaffold — that they had a kingly outlook on men’s needs 
and their infirmities, and would not surrender, for any wind 
of circumstance that blew about them, their royal love for 
big or little of the men who trusted them. Sir Jasper was 
learning, indeed, what afterwards the folk in Skye were to 
learn — in Skye and in Glenmoriston and in a hundred lonely 
glens among the Highlands — that the Prince he served was 
the simplest and most human man, perhaps, among them all. 

The wind dropped as they rode, and the sleet ceased falling 
for a while; and the sun, an hour before its setting, struck 
through the clouds that had hindered it all day. Lights, mag- 
ical and vivid, began to paint the land’s harsh face. The 
moorland peaks, to right and left, were crowned with fugitive, 
fast-racing mists of blue and green and rose colour; and 
ahead of them, astride the steep, curving rise of the highway, 
there was a belt of scarlet that seemed to flame the hills with 
smoky fire. 

“ Your land is beautiful, Sir Jasper,” said the Prince, halt- 
ing a moment to breathe his horse as they reached the hill- 
top. “ I did not guess it when we rode south through sun- 
less mire.” 


240 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


It is in time of defeat and stress that the deep chords of a 
man’s soul are struck, and now Sir Jasper’s face lit up. “ My 
land of Lancashire — it is always beautiful to me. It cradled 
me. There’s no midwinter bleakness can drive away remem- 
brance of the pleasant days we’ve shared.” 

“ You speak as men do who are married happily,” laughed 
the Prince. “ This barbarous country is just a wife to you, 

I think — her temper may be vile, but you remember gentler 
days.” 

Sir Jasper fell in with his mood, and smiled as if he jested; 
but he talked of matters very dear to the honest, simple heart 
of him. “ I can count on my fingers, your Highness, the 
things in life that are of importance to me — my Faith, my 
Prince, the wife who’s waiting for me over yonder at Windy- 
hough, and my lads — and the dear moors o’ Lancashire that 
bred me.” 

Their eyes met; and, somewhere from his tired, hunted 
mood, the Prince found a candour equal to Sir Jasper’s own. 
“ Faith first,” he said quietly, “ but your wife before your 
Prince, by your leave. I — I have not deserved well of you, 
Sir Jasper. I asked you to take me to the throne, and — I 
have given you this.” 

Sir Jasper thought of his wife, her weak caprices, the 
yapping of the toy spaniel that had its mimic cradle in their 
bedroom at Windyhough — thought of Rupert, who should 
have been beside him now — thought of all that had hindered 
him through these years. For he was not as young as his 
keen ardour wished, and these empty days of bodily hard- 
ship, with no reward of fight to hearten them, had sapped his 
courage. Yet he responded, bravely enough, to the challenge. 

“ My wife, God bless her ! is — so dear that we'll not give 
her any place, your Highness. She claims her own, by 
right.” 

The Prince puffed gently at the disreputable, blackened 
pipe he cherished. He glanced at the hills, saw the next 
storm creep grey and wan across the sunset lights. “ It is 


THE GALLOP 


241 


a savage land,” he said dispassionately. “ I never guessed 
it could breed courtiers. Your wife, if she were near, would 
be pleased to know the temper of your constancy — it is hard 
and lithe as whipcord, sir, like a sword-blade forged by old 
Andrew Ferrara.” 

They jogged on again, at the foot pace to which the Prince 
had trained himself since Derby ; and presently they came 
to a broad, grassy lane that led, wide to the left hand, into 
the sunset moors. And Sir Jasper checked his horse and sat 
rigidly in saddle, looking up the byway. 

“ What ails you? ” asked the Prince. 

“ Remembrance,” said Sir Jasper, turning his horse’s head 
away from the road it knew by heart. “ It is no time for 
rosemary, you think? And yet ” 

“ You talk in riddles.” 

“ No, pardon me ; I talk — of the road that leads to my own 
house of Windyhough — and to my wife — and to the son I 
left at home.” 

“ Why, then, ride across and snatch a glimpse of them,” 
said the other, quick to respond to the need of a man’s 
heart. 

“ And desert a retreating army, your Highness ? ” 

“There’s no desertion. We are near our quarters for the 
night — and nothing happens, as you know, in the way of sud- 
den battles. Our luck is out just now. Go, see your wife, 
sir — you’ve earned the holiday — and then ride across coun- 
try to Langton. We march from there at daybreak.” 

“ I do not ask ease,” said Sir Jasper stubbornly. “ We’re 
following the road of discipline, and wives, I think, must 
wait.” 

The Prince glanced pleasantly at him. “ Probe light or 
deep, sir, you’re most amazingly a soldier.” He smiled — so 
had Mary Stuart smiled once amid disaster, and so had 
Charles when he stepped to the scaffold — secure and gravely 
happy. “ You will take your orders,” he went on, “ as good 
soldiers do. There was a breach of discipline — I forgot to 


242 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


chide you when you spoke of it just now. I mean the duel 
you provoked with Lord Murray in the wood. Your pun- 
ishment is — just to ride through the vile weather you breed 
up here and give my thanks to Lady Royd for the husband 
she lent so recklessly to barren leadership. And rejoin me 
with the dawn. I command you, sir ! ” he added sharply, 
seeing that Sir Jasper hesitated still. 

“ Then I obey, your Highness ; but you will let me watch 
you out of sight.” 

“ But why? Langton is so near. Are you afraid that an- 
other band of cavalry — cart-horse cavalry — will catch me 
up? Miss Demaine’s mare, that carries me, will show them 
light heels enough.” 

Sir Jasper looked at this man, whose body and whose soul 
were kingly, this man to whom he had entrusted many dreams 
and sacrifices. And the tears were in his eyes again, he knew 
not why. “ When a man loves deep, your Highness, he fears. 
I ask you to let me guard the road behind you.” 

“You love me? After this retreat — after the cursed roads 
and hopelessness — you — you love me? Say it again, sir.” 

“What else? None ever loved a Stuart yet by halves.” 

The Prince tapped him gently on the shoulder. “ When 
better days come in,” he said, “ I shall make you acquainted 
with my Highlanders. They love as deep as you, and, know- 
ing myself, I wonder at their blindness.” 

It was so they parted, wayfarers who had found leal com- 
radeship and trust. And no momentary parting of the ways 
could ever sunder them again ; for trust is not born among the 
crowded shows of life, but in the lonely byways where man 
meets man and finds him likeable. 

Sir Jasper sat in saddle at the parting of the ways, and 
watched the Prince go slowly up the road. The long strain 
was telling on him, and the bitter wind chilled all his outlook 
for a moment. A sense of foreboding took him unawares. 
It seemed that the Prince, in riding so far behind his army, 
was courting death; as if he preferred to be overtaken, here 


THE GALLOP 243 

in England, rather than go back, a broken man, to his own 
land across the border. 

“No!” he growled, with sharp contempt of the thought. 
“ He’s heart-sick — but no coward.” 

He gave a last glance up the road, as one follows a de- 
parting friend long after he is lost to sight, sighed impa- 
tiently, and turned his horse into the bridle-way that led to 
Windyhough. Then he reined about, suddenly aware of gal- 
loping hoofs, of the fret of horses checked too sharply on 
the curb, of a harsh voice that bade him halt. 

Goldstein’s men had tracked their quarry, day after patient 
day, since their first attempt at Derby to capture the Prince’s 
person. Three times they had found him so far behind his 
army that he seemed an easy prey; and three times — follow- 
ing what some would call a random whim, and others the 
guidance of the God he served — the Prince, not knowing his 
enemies were near, had grown tired of guarding the rear and 
had galloped forward suddenly to join his men and pass a 
jest among them. And Goldstein knew that his hold on the 
rough cavalry he led was weakening day by day. He had 
kept them to heel only by crude and persistent reminders that 
thirty thousand pounds, as represented by the Stuart, were 
worth some patience in the gaining. 

Sir Jasper, reining sharply round, saw a company of men — 
a score or so — who wore the Hanoverian livery; and at the 
head of them was a blunt, red-featured officer who looked 
singularly like a farmer who had lived neighbour to the ale- 
barrel. And he knew them for the men who had given chase 
at Derby, though as yet they had no answering recollection 
of the friend who had ridden close besideThe Prince’s bridle- 
hand that day. 

“Your business, sir?” asked Goldstein sharply. “You’re 
too near the retreat to be let pass without a challenge. Be- 
sides ’’—with a laugh, following long scrutiny— “ you’ve the 
look, somehow, of one of those cursed Jacobites.” 

“ You flatter me, sir,” said Sir Jasper coolly. “ It has been 


244 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


my business in life to feel like one — and, by your leave, it is 
pleasant that you know my breed at sight.” 

The sleet was drifting in quiet flakes before a wind that 
was tired for a while of its own speed. From the western 
spur of moor a long, slanting gleam of sunlight lit up this 
bleak land’s loneliness — lit up Sir Jasper’s figure as he sat, 
unconcerned, disdainful, in the saddle of a restive horse. 
For a moment the dragoons drew back; they had lived in a 
world where each fought for his own advancement only, and 
they were perplexed by this spectacle of a man who, alone and 
far behind retreating comrades, made open confession of his 
faith. 

Goldstein swore roundly — not as the gently-born do in 
times of stress, but like a ploughboy when his team refuses 
to obey him. “ Are you a fool, sir? ” he sputtered. 

“ Well, yes,” Sir Jasper answered gravely. “ As much as 
my fellows. I’m human, sir, as you are.” 

The troopers laughed, and Goldstein felt his hold on them 
grow ever a little and a little less. “ You’re one of the Pre- 
tender’s men?” he snarled. “ We shoot all vermin of that 
sort at sight.” 

“ No, sir. I am attached to the army of Prince Charles 
Edward. No man is a pretender when he asks only for his 
own again.” 

“ Then you’re tired of life? ” said Goldstein, trying clumsily 
to catch something of Sir Jasper’s easy handling of the situ- 
ation. 

“ Again you are in the wrong. I never guessed, till now, 
how good life is. I have been riding with one stronger and 
better than myself — and after that I ride, when you are tired 
of questioning me, to the wife and the home I love. It is 
all so simple, if you would believe me.” 

Sir Jasper, under all his honesty of speech, was aware that 
he was delaying the advance of these rough-riders along the 
Langton road, was helping the Prince to safety while he rode 
so perilously behind his army. He was aware, too, in some 


THE GALLOP 


245 


random way, as he listened to Goldstein’s queer, guttural 
English, that he had been exact when he told Lady Royd, over 
and over again, that it was no civil war the Rising men had 
stirred up, but simply the resistance of the English to the 
foreign invader; a resistance old and stalwart as that of 
Hereward the Wake ; a resistance that would last the English 
till they triumphed or they died. 

Goldstein, his muddied wits stirred, may be, by some vision 
borrowed from Sir Jasper, knew his man at last. “ It was 
you who rode with the Pretender, when we went near to cap- 
ture you after Derby ? ” 

“ I was with the Prince,” said Sir Jasper, with a smile that 
bewildered Goldstein and his troopers ; “ but, sir, you did not 
come near to capturing us. You were too — too clumsy, shall 
Isay?” 

Goldstein’s troopers liked the free, courageous bearing of 
the man, and he knew it. “ Well, we’re here,” he said dourly. 
“ You admit little, but your life — it’s not worth a poor man’s 
purchase, surely ? ” 

Sir Jasper took a look at the hills, as moor-bred men will 
do at these times. “ It was worth a poor Man’s purchase 
once — near two thousand years ago,” he said, with the bear- 
ing of a man and the simplicity of a child who does not fear 
or doubt. 

Goldstein had gone through many a rugged fight, over- 
seas in Flanders ; but the way of this man’s courage was un- 
familiar, and it daunted him. 

“ There are one-and-twenty of us,” he said irresolutely, 
“and you’re alone. You’ll not fight single-handed?” 

“ No,” said Sir Jasper, handling his snuff-box lazily and 
giving no outward sign that he had crossed himself. “ No, 
in any case I shall not fight single-handed. Have you any 
further questions to ask, sir? The sun is getting down, and 
I’ve a ride before me.” 

To Goldstein this man’s calm was insolence, and he knew 
that he was losing ground constantly with the men behind 


246 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


him. “ Yes, I’ve a question or two to ask,” he snapped. 
“ You can buy your life by a straight answer.” 

“ But the price may be too heavy,” protested Sir Jasper. 

“ You were with the Pretender soon after Derby, on your 
own confession.” 

“ With Prince Charles Edward, by your leave,” the other 
corrected, with the same pleasant smoothness. 

“ Oh, curse you ! what do titles matter ? The pretty boy 
with the love-locks — you were with him, that day we nearly 
took you both.” 

“ I was with him, and it was a privilege. Believe me, sir, 
I have some miles to go, and dusk is coming on. Can I 
answer any other doubts you have — of my honesty, shall I 
say?” 

Sir Jasper had glanced round, had seen a sheer wall of rock, 
twenty paces behind him, from which some farmer long ago 
had quarried the stones for his homestead on the moor above. 
He had chosen his vantage-ground ; and still, through all this 
talk that gained a few moments by the way, he had only the 
one, simple-minded plan — to get his back to the wall, and fight 
single-handed till he dropped, and give his life to earn for 
his Prince a few more precious moments. He edged his 
horse backward gently — pretending that it was fidgeting on 
the curb — and drew near the quarry-face. He thought of 
Windyhough, of his wife and Rupert, of the free, hard-riding 
days behind; and then he thought no more of these things, 
but only of the narrow track of loyalty. It was so that the 
Lancashire gentry — the strong men among them — had trained 
themselves to live for the Stuart cause. And, as a man lives, 
so he finds himself prepared to die. 

“ You’re the Prince’s watch-dog,” said Goldstein. 

“ May be. I wish he had a better.” 

“ He’s somewhere near then.” 

“ That is vastly probable, sir.” Sir Jasper glanced at the 
hills again, as if seeking counsel. These men had followed 
the retreat persistently. If he denied all knowledge of the 


THE GALLOP 


247 


Prince’s whereabouts, they would spur forward up the main 
road, would come in sight of that desolate, square-shouldered 
figure who stood, in his own person, for the strength, the 
gallantry, the hoping against odds, of this disastrous ’Forty- 
Five. 

He sat in saddle, looking from the hills to the faces of 
these one-and-twenty troopers. He needed a ready tongue, 
and was more accustomed to straightforward action than to 
play of stratagem. He must keep these rascals dallying for 
as long as might be, must afterwards lengthen the fight to the 
last edge of his strength. He had a single purpose, and his 
hold on it was firm — to keep pursuit at bay until the Prince 
rode nearer to Langton and the night’s bivouac than he did 
just now. 

And as he tried to find words to relieve the burdensome, 
tense silence, Captain Goldstein blundered into one of those 
seeming inspirations that lead callous folk into the marshes, 
as moorland will-o’-wiispies do. “ The Pretender is afraid 
of the thirty thousand pounds on his head,” he said, turning* 
to the men behind him. “ The watch-dog is waiting here at 
the turning that leads to his own home ; the Pretender is out 
of sight; the plot is all so childish. Our road lies this way, 
and you, sir, will show it to us. The Pretender, I take it, is 
your guest to-night — if we don’t catch him first? You will 
lead us, sir, I say.” 

Sir Jasper, his back to the quarry-wall now, could not 
grasp at once the help this captain of rough-riders was giving 
him. His mind was set on the simple business of gaining 
time by a fight to the death, and his hand was on his sword- 
hilt. “ I never led a rabble yet,” he said, with easy conde- 
scension, “ and I am too old to learn new exercises.” 

Goldstein was in the company of a gentleman; and, know- 
ing it, he winced. But he kept his temper; for his view of 
life was bounded by advancement, and he wished to make all 
sure in this big affair of capturing the Prince, dead or alive. 

“ You do not deny that the Pretender is making for your 


248 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


own house?” he asked, with a sharp glance. “ You’re 
shepherding him; along this bridle-track ? ” 

“ I would God that his Highness might lie safe at my own 
house of Windyhough to-night.” Even now Sir Jasper 
found it hard to lie outright, though he realised suddenly 
that there was a better way of service than death at the 
quarry-face. 

As it chanced, however, his words suggested evasion to 
Goldstein — evasion, and a manifest desire to cloak his errand. 
“ You’ll not show us the way, then? You’re bent on being 
riddled through with bullets? Your sword’s out — but it can 
whistle as it will. You shall answer it with musketry.” 

It was like Sir Jasper that he had forgotten their fire-arms 
when he drew his sword. Long companionship with those 
of his own breed had led him to expect, instinctively, that a 
score men, coming up against one, would at least meet him 
with his own weapon. He laughed at his own simplicity — 
laughed the more quietly because now it was of no conse- 
quence either way. His view of the Prince’s safety grew 
broader every moment. It was not enough that he should 
head off pursuit from him until he had reached safety in to- 
night’s camp at Langton. This company of horse had fol- 
lowed the retreat so diligently that to-morrow there would be 
danger to Stuart’s person, and the next day after, and every 
day that found him riding at the rear of his sad Highlanders. 
The plain way of service, as Sir Jasper saw it now, was to 
take these nondescript cavalry across country, wide between 
the Lancashire hills, and so give the Prince a longer respite 
from pursuit. 

“ Am I privileged to change my mind ? ” he asked, putting 
his sword in sheath again. 

“Allowed to save your skin?” said Goldstein, the bully in 
him quick to take advantage of any show of weakness in an 
adversary. “ As for your mind — you may change it once, 
my friend, but not twice.” 

“ I pledge my honour that I will lead you to Windyhough.” 


THE GALLOP 


249 


“ Oh, your honour ! That will be safe enough. You 
will lead, and my men carry their muskets loaded ; and 
if anything goes wrong between this and Windyhough — 
you’ll die for the Stuart, sir,” he finished, with a savage 
grin. 

“ I make one condition only,” went on the other suavely — 
“ that I ride at my own pace.” 

“ How far is Windyhough from here ? ” asked Goldstein, 
with suspicion. 

“ Ten miles.” 

“ Then ride at any pace you like. If we crawl, we shall be 
there before the Pretender has well got through with supper, 
and our horses are none too fresh, I own.” 

Sir Jasper took a pinch of snuff, and rode out in silence 
from the quarry-face. He was easily master in this enter- 
prise, and wondered that the gross body of the man could dull 
Goldstein’s reason so completely. 

“You will want to share the thirty thousand pounds with 
us ? ” said Goldstein, feeling now that his men were with him, 
answering to his brutal jests. “ You’ve saved your skin, sir, 
and your house of Windyhough ; and you need a little ready 
money in your pocket. Well, we shall see.” 

Sir Jasper was suddenly ashamed of what these men were 
thinking of him. Sensitive, alert, he gauged the meaning of 
Goldstein’s insolence, of the troopers’ careless laughter. They 
fancied this was the stuff the Prince’s gentlemen were made 
of — to talk loftily one moment, and the next to play the trai- 
tor and the coward. They believed, these shock-headed ras- 
cals gathered from the foreign kennels, that a gentleman of 
Lancashire could rate his own life dearer than the Stuart’s, 
could afterwards accept blood-money. And then, because he 
knew himself, Sir Jasper shrugged his shoulders, as if to rid 
them of an evil burden. 

“ We ride forward,” he said, moving from the quarry-face 
and trotting to the head of the company. 

“ That is so,” said Goldstein, with rough banter ; “ and re- 


250 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


member, sir, that your honour — your Stuart honour — is 
guarded by one-and-twenty muskets, ready primed.” 

Again the troopers laughed ; and again Sir Jasper’s instinct 
was to vindicate himself. Then he remembered the dogged 
patience of another who rode — in safety, so far — at the rear- 
guard of his army. And he disdained the ill-favoured mob 
behind him. 

They went up and down the bridle-track that threaded this 
white land of hills and cold austerity. It was a track whose 
every turning was a landmark to Sir Jasper, reminding him 
of other days. He had ridden it when he went hunting — 
when he went south to the wooing; when, afterwards, he 
needed respite from the lap-dog follies of his wife, from the 
knowledge that his heir was never likely, in this world, at 
least, to prove himself a man of action. This lane was thick 
with memories for him; but never, until now, had he ridden 
it a fugitive. 

He thought of Derby and the sick retreat. He thought of 
many might-have-beens, and because the pain of it was so 
sharp and urgent he gathered up his courage. He held the 
Faith ; he was strong and stubborn ; and out of this windy ride 
to his own home he plucked new resolution. 

They came — he and Goldstein’s men — to Lone Man’s Cross, 
a wayside monument that marked the spot where a travelling 
pedlar had been murdered long ago. And as he passed it 
Sir Jasper recalled how, as a boy, he had been afraid to ride 
by the spot at dusk. They came to the little kirk of St. 
Michael’s on the Hill, and passed it wide on the left hand, 
and went down by way of Fairy-Kist Hollow, where the leaf- 
less rowans were gowned in frosted sleet. From time to time 
some ribald jest would come to him from 1 one or other of the 
troopers ; but he did not heed. One half of him was think- 
ing of the memories this bridle-track held for him, of the 
hopes and fears and gallant dreams that had kept him com- 
pany along it in the years gone by; the other half — the 
shrewd-witted, practical half — was content to know that each 


THE GALLOP 


251 


mile they traversed was leading danger farther from the 
Prince, that each step of the rough, up-and-down track was 
telling on horses that were too southern in the build for this 
cross-country work. His own mare was lithe and easy un- 
der him, for she was hill-bred. 

They rode forward slowly through a land that turned con- 
stantly a cold and sleety shoulder to them at every bend of 
the way. And they came to the Brig o’ Tryst — a small and 
graceful bridge — to which, so country superstition said, the 
souls truly mated came at last. 

“ You live in a cursed climate, Sir Jasper,” said Goldstein 
gruffly ; “ and gad ! Your roads match it.” 

Sir Jasper was alert again. Some quality in Goldstein’s 
voice roused in him a loathing healthy and inspiriting. 
Dreams went by him. He took hold of this day’s realities, 
saw the strip of level going ahead, remembered that he was a 
short five miles now from Windyhough, with a game mare un- 
der him. There would be time to get into his own house, to 
barricade the doors ; and afterwards there would be the swift, 
hard battle he had hungered for at Derby. 

He put spurs to his mare, and she answered blithely. And 
Goldstein understood on the sudden what this gentleman of 
Lancashire had meant when he passed his word to lead them, 
at his own pace, to Windyhough. 

“Halt! Fire!” he roared. “Are you daft, you fools?” 

His men recovered from a surprise equal to his own. The 
light was wan and sleety, with mist coming down from the 
hills; but the fugitive was well in sight still as they brought 
their muskets to the shoulders. A sharp volley rang out be- 
tween the silent hills, as if every trooper had pulled his trig- 
ger in instant answer to command. It seemed that one here 
and there of the shots would tell ; but Sir Jasper went gallop- 
ping over the level, and dipped down the further rise, and their 
horses would not answer when they tried to gallop in 
pursuit. 

“ So that is all the wars in Flanders taught you ? ” said 


252 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Goldstein savagely. “ You should have brought your wives 
to shoot for you.” 

A low growl went up. These men were tired of Gold- 
stein’s leadership, tired of the hardship and bad weather. 
And their leader knew the meaning of that growl. 

“ Keep your cursed tempers,” he said, with what to him 
was suavity. “ There’s the Pretender at the end of this day’s 
journey — and a price on his head.” 

At Windyhough, Rupert and his mother sat in the parlour, 
with its faded scents and tapestries. They waited for great 
happenings that did not come their way; and they were sick 
at heart. Rupert was hungry for news of the father who was 
braver and stronger than he — the father whom he missed at 
every turn of the day’s road. He had done his round of the 
house with Simon Foster; and Nance, who cheered his out- 
look for him whenever she came in sight, was absent on some 
wild hill-scamper, shared by the broken-winded horse who had 
grown close comrade to her. 

Lady Royd, with the new-found motherhood that made her 
comelier, guessed what was passing in the boy’s mind; and 
she fussed about him, when he was asking only for free air 
and the chance to fight like other men. And Rupert thought, 
with a shame that deadened all his outlook, of the years when 
he had stood, scholarly, ironical, apart from the blood and 
tears that meet wayfarers who take the open road. He saw it 
all, to-night when the peevish wind was beating through the 
draughty house — saw the weakness that had divided him 
from the open-air, good fellows who liked and pitied him. 

“ There’s powder and shot stored here, and I know how to 
use them,” he said, with light contempt of himself. “ And 
yet nothing happens, mother. It is as Simon Foster says — 
‘ we’re needing storms and earthquakes, just to make to-day 
a little different, like, fro’ yesterday.’ ” 

“ Oh, your chance will come,” said Lady Royd, with the 
pitiful feigning of belief that she thought was faith. “ Your 
father taught you, just before he went, how to direct a siege. 


THE GALLOP 


253 


You remember that he taught you?” she insisted. “ He 
trusted you to hold Windyhough for the Prince.” 

Rupert laughed— a sudden, dreary laugh that startled her. 
“ He taught me well. I’ve not forgotten the lesson, mother. 
But he knew there would be no siege. I heard him tell 
you so.” 

There was no sharp riding-in of enemies. The night was 
still, and empty, and at peace. Yet Lady Royd was plunged 
deep, by her own son, into tragedy and battle. She remem- 
bered the night of Sir Jasper’s departure — the talk they had 
had in hall — her husband’s weary confession that he had lied 
to Rupert, telling him a fairy-tale of the coming attack on 
Windyhough. 

Rupert had overheard them, it seemed; and through all 
these days of strain and waiting he had not spoken of his 
trouble, had let it eat inward like a fire. As if in punish- 
ment for the indifference of earlier years, Lady Royd’s per- 
ception of all that touched her son was clear to the least de- 
tail now. With her new gift of motherhood, of courting pain 
for its own sake, she retraced, step by step, the meaning of 
these last few days to Rupert. He had grown used to the 
sense that he stood apart from stronger men, unable to share 
full life with them; but always, behind it all, he had been 
sure, until a little while ago, that his father trusted him to 
prove his manhood one day. 

She went to him, and put her arms about him, as any cot- 
tage mother might have done. “ Oh, my boy — my boy ! ” she 
cried, understanding the fierceness, the loneliness, of this last 
trouble. 

In this mood of his, with his back to the wall which no 
man asked him to defend, Rupert could have withstood many 
dangers; but sympathy exasperated him. 

“ It is hard for my father,” he said, with desperate sim- 
plicity. “ There was never a weak link in the Royd chain 
till I was born the heir. Why did I come to — to bring him 
shame ? ” 


254 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Some ruggedness, borrowed from the land that was hers 
by marriage, bade Lady Royd stand straight and take her 
punishment. 

“ I will tell you why,” she said, her voice passionate and 
low ; “ I hindered you before your birth. I went riding when 
your father bade me rest at home — and my horse fell ” 

“ Just as mine did when I went to join the Rising,” said 
Rupert, following his own train of thought. “ Mother, I 
should have been with the Prince’s army now if — if my horse 
had not stumbled.” 

Lady Royd crossed to the mantel, leaned her head awhile 
on the cool oak of it. “ Yes,” she said, turning sharply. 
“ Yes, Rupert. It has taken five-and-twenty years — but I’m 
answering for that ride of mine.” 

He looked at her in wonder. And suddenly he realised 
that this beautiful, tired mother of his was needing help. She 
had not guessed what strength there was in her son’s arms 
until he drew her close to him. 

“ What ails us, mother ? ” he asked, with surprising tender- 
ness. “ We’ve Windyhough, and powder and ball, and Lan- 
cashire may need us yet.” 

Hope took her unawares. This boy was transformed into 
a man of action; for only active men can glance from their 
own troubles to understand the .weakness that is planted, like 
lavender, in the heart of every woman. 

“ I would God it needed us,” she said, with a touch of her 
old petulance. “ Lancashire men can sing leal songs 
enough ” 

“ Can live them, 'too. The hills have cradled us.” 

Lady Royd smiled, as if her heart were playing round her 
lips. “ You’re no fool, son of mine,” she said. “ I wish the 
Retreat were sweeping straight to Windyhough, instead of 
leaving us in peace. I wish you could be proved.” 

Rupert glanced shyly at her. He was son and lover both, 
diffident, eager, chivalrous. “ Suppose there’s no attack on 
the house, mother — suppose I were never proved? I have 


I 


THE GALLOP 


255 


learned so much to-night — so much. Surely there’s some- 
thing gained.” 

It was a moment of simple, intimate knowledge, each of the 
other. And the mother’s face was flower-like, dainty ; the 
spoilt wife’s wrinkles were altogether gone. 

“ It is my turn to ask why,” she said, with a coquetry that 
was rainy as an April breeze. “ I’ve not deserved well of 
you, my dear — not deserved well at all, and have told you 
so; and you choose just this time — to honour me. Men are 
perplexing, Rupert. One never knows their moods.” 

Her toy spaniel began barking from somewhere at the far 
end of the house; and the old inconsequence returned from 
habit. 

“Oh, there’s poor Fido crying!” she said eagerly. “Go 
find him, Rupert. The poor little man is so sensitive — you 
know he’s almost human, and he is crying for me.” 

And Rupert went out on the old, foolish quest — willingly 
enough this time. He had seen beneath the foolish, pam- 
pered surface of his mother’s character, and was content to 
hold secure this newborn love for her, this knowledge that she 
needed him. He was needed — at long last. 

“ You look gay, master,” said Simon Foster, meeting him 
down the corridor. “Well, it’s each man to his taste; but I 
shouldn’t have said, like, there was much to hearten a man 
these days.” 

“ You’ve not sought in the right place,” laughed the master. 

And then Simon grinned, foolishly and pleasantly. For he 
remembered how he had helped Martha the dairymaid to milk 
the cows not long ago. “ I’m not complaining,” he said 
guardedly. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE RIDING IN \ 

Sir Jasper, sure of his mare, had ridden hard toward Windy- 
hough. He had promised, in good faith, that he would lead 
Captain Goldstein on the road, but he had not passed his 
word that he would ride at the pace of heavy cavalry. He 
heard the bullets singing, right and left and overhead, after 
Goldstein’s call to fire ; but the lean, hill-bred mare was going 
swiftly under him, and it was only five miles home to Windy- 
hough. There had been a sharp pain in his left shoulder, a 
stab as if a red-hot rapier had pierced him, in the midst of the 
crackling musket-din behind him ; but that was forgotten. 

The mare galloped forward gamely. She was untouched, 
save for a bullet that had grazed her flank and quickened her 
temper to good purpose. Sir Jasper’s spirits rose, as the re- 
membered landmarks swept past him on the wind. His 
mind, his vision, his grip on forward hope, were singularly 
clear and strong. This was his holiday, after the sickness of 
retreat. 

He had gained a mile by now. His pursuers, riding jaded 
horses, were out of sight and hearing behind the hump of 
Haggart Rise. He remembered, once again, the Prince’s fig- 
ure, riding solitary on the Langton road; and he was glad 
that these one-and-twenty louts were being led wide of their 
real quarry. And then he forgot the Stuarts, and recalled 
his wife’s face, the tenderness he had for her, the peril he 
was bringing north to Windyhough. Behind him was Cap- 
tain Goldstein, of unknown ancestry and doubtful morals, and 
with him a crowd of raffish foreigners, who would follow any 
cause that promised licence and good pay. 

Sir Jasper saw the danger plainly. He was thinking, not 
256 


THE RIDING IN 


257 


of the Prince’s honour now, but of his wife’s. He knew that 
he must win to Windyhough. And still his spirits rose; for 
this was danger, undisguised and facing him across the sleety, 
rugged hills he loved. Windyhough had stout walls, and 
powder and ball, and loopholes facing to the four points of / 
the compass ; Simon Foster would be there, and Rupert could 
pull a trigger ; it would be in the power of this little garrison 
to hold the house, to pick off, one by one, this company of 
Goldstein’s until the rest took panic and left it to its lone- 
liness. 

It was a hazard to his liking, and Sir Jasper’s face was 
keen and ruddy as he clattered down and up the winding 
track. He was a short mile now from Windyhough, and he 
eased his mare because she showed signs of trouble. 

“ We’ve time and to spare, lass,” he muttered, patting her 
neck. “No need to kill you for the Cause.” 

And then — from, the midst of his eagerness and hope— a 
sickness crept over the horseman’s eyes. His left shoulder 
was on fire, it seemed ; and, glancing down, he saw dimly 
that his riding-coat was splashed with crimson. The mare, 
feeling no command go out across the reins, yielded to her 
own weariness, and halted suddenly. Sir Jasper tried to urge 
her forward; but his hand was weak on the bridle, and the 
grassy track, the hills, the flakes of sleet, were phantoms mov- 
ing through a nightmare prison. 

He had come to the gate of Intake Farm, and the farmer 
— Ben Shackleton by name — was striding up the road to 
gather in some ewes from the higher lands before the snow 
began to drift in earnest. 

“ Lord love you, sir ! ” he said nonchalantly, catching Sir 
Jasper as he slid helplessly from saddle. “ Lord love you, 
sir, you’re bleeding like a pig ! ” 

“ It’s nothing, Ben.” Even now Sir Jasper kept his spa- 
cious contempt of pain, his instinct to hide a wound as if it 
were a crime. “ Help me to horse again. My wife needs 
me — needs me, Ben.” 


258 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Then he yielded to sheer sickness for a moment; and Ben 
Shackleton, who was used to helping lame cattle, grew brisk 
and businesslike. “ Here, William ! ” he called to a shepherd 
who was slouching in the mistal-yard. “ Come lend a hand, 
thou idle-bones ! Here’s master ta’en a hurt, and he’s a 
bulkier man than me. We’ve got to help him indoors to the 
lang-settle.” 

Sir Jasper, by grace of long training, was able to keep his 
weakness off for a space of time that seemed to him inter- 
minable. He saw Windyhough at the mercy of these raga- 
bouts of Goldstein’s — saw his wife standing, proud, disdain- 
ful, pitiful, while they bandied jests from mouth to mouth. 

“ It’s nothing, Ben, I tell you ! ” he muttered testily. 
“ Help me to saddle.” 

He staggered forward, tried to mount, fell back again into 
Ben’s arms. And still he would not yield. And then at last 
he knew that Windyhough would not see him to-day, if ever 
again ; and the pity he had for his wife, left defenceless there 
by his own doing, was like a knife cutting deep and ceaselessly 
into his living flesh. 

He was in torment, so that his wound, save that it ham- 
pered him, seemed a trivial matter. To Ben Shackleton and 
the shepherd all passed in a few minutes ; they did not guess 
how long the interval was to Sir Jasper between this going 
down to hell and the first ray of hope that crossed the black- 
ness. 

Sir Jasper passed a hand across his eyes. If only he could 
understand this sudden hope, the meaning of it — if his wits 
were less muddled — there was a chance yet for Windyhough. 
Then he remembered Rupert — his son, to whom he had told 
a fairy-tale of gunpowder and ball, and the defence of the 
old house — and a weight seemed lifted from him. He re- 
called how he had said to the boy’s mother that Rupert was 
leal and stubborn at the soul of him, however it might be with 
his capacity for every-day affairs. He smiled, so that Ben 
and the shepherd, looking on, thought that he was fey ; for he 


THE RIDING IN 259 

was thinking how weak in body he himself was, how, like 
Rupert, he had only his leal soul to depend upon. 

Then, for the last time before he surrendered to the weak- 
ness that was gripping him in earnest, he had a moment of 
borrowed vigour. “ Ben,” he said, in the old tone of com- 
mand, “you’ve your horse ready saddled?” 

“ Aye, sir ! ” answered the other, bewildered but obedient. 

“ Ride hard for Windyhough. There’s a troop of the 
enemy close behind. Gallop, Ben, and tell my son ” — he 
steadied himself, with a hand on the shepherd’s shoulder — 
“ tell him. that he must hold the house until I come, that I 
trust him, that he knows where the powder is stored. Oh, 
you fool, you stand- gaping! And there is urgency.” 

“ I’m loath to leave you, Sir Jasper ” 

“ You’ll be less loath, Ben,” broke in the other, with a fine 
rallying to his shattered strength, “ if I bring the blunt side of 
my sword about your ears.” 

So Ben Shackleton, troubled and full of doubt, got to 
horse, following that instinct of obedience which the master 
had learned before he taught it to his men, and rode up the 
windy track. Sir Jasper, when he had seen him top the rise 
and disappear in the yellow, dreary haze, leaned heavily 
against the shepherd. 

“ Now for the lang-settle, since needs must,” he said, with 
a last bid for gaiety. “ I can cross the mistal-yard, I think, 
with a little help. So, shepherd! It heaves like a ship in 
storm; it heaves, I tell you; but my son out yonder — my son 
at Windyhough — oh, the dear God knows, shepherd, that I 
taught him — taught him how to die, I hope ! ” 

They crossed the mistal-yard, blundering as they went; 
and somehow the shepherd got Sir Jasper into the cheery, 
firelit house-place, and on to the lang-settle. Ben Shackle- 
ton’s wife was baking an apple-pasty when they came in, 
and glanced up. If she felt surprise, she showed none, but 
wiped the flour from her arms with her apron, and crossed 
to the settle. She looked at Sir Jasper as he lay in a white 


260 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


and deathlike swoon, and saw the blood oozing from his 
wounded shoulder. 

Shackleton’s wife was quick of tongue and quick of her 
hands. “ Take thy girt lad’s foolishness out o’ doors, Wil- 
liam, ! ” she snapped. “ I know how to dresss a wound by 
this time, or should do, seeing how oft Shackleton lames him- 
self by using farm-tools carelessly. Shackleton has a gift 
that way.” 

The shepherd passed out into the windy, cheerless out-o’- 
doors. He knew the mistress in this humour, and preferred 
a chill breeze from the east. As he crossed the mistal-yard 
he saw a company of horsemen, riding jaded nags; and they 
were grouped about Sir Jasper’s mare, that, too tired to 
move, was whinnying for her absent master. 

“ Hi, my man ! ” said Goldstein. “ Whose mare is this ? ” 

“ Sir Jasper Royd’s,” the shepherd answered. His voice 
was low and pleasant, as the way of Lancashire folk is when 
they prepare to meet a bullying intrusion. 

“ Then he’s here?” 

“ No,” said the shepherd, after picking a straw from the 
yard and chewing it with bucolic, grave simplicity. “ No. 
Sir Jasper changed horses here, and rode for Windyhough.” 

“ How far away? ” 

The shepherd thought of Sir Jasper, lying yonder on the 
lang-settle. He was touched, in some queer way, by the mas- 
ter’s gallantry in the dark hour of retreat. He was so moved 
that he was brought, against his will, to tell a lie and stick 
to it. 

“ Oh, six mile or so, as the crow flies — more by road,” he 
said nonchalantly. <r Ye’d best be getting forrard, if ye want 
to win there by nightfall.” 

Goldstein mistook this country yokel’s simplicity for hon- 
est dullness. Men more in touch with the Lancashire char- 
acter had done as much before his time, especially when 
horse-dealing was in progress on market days. “ You look 
honest, my man,” he said, stooping to slip a coin into Wil- 


THE RIDING IN 261 

Ham’s hand. “ Tell me what sort of road it is from here to 
Windyhough.” 

“ Well, as for honest,” said the other, with the vacant grin 
that was expected of him, “ I may be honest as my neigh- 
bours, if that be much to boast of ; and it’s a terrible ill-found 
road, for sure. Best be jogging forrard, I tell ye.” 

“ It’s cursed luck, men,” said Goldstein, spurring his horse 
into the semblance of a trot ; “ but we’re hunting big game 
this time. A mile or two needn’t matter. There’s the Pre- 
tender at Windyhough, remember, and a nice bit of money to 
be earned.” 

The shepherd watched them over the hilltop, then glanced 
at the piece of silver lying in his palm. There was so much 
he might do with this money — might buy himself a mug or 
two of ale at the tavern in the hollow, just by way of chang- 
ing the crown-piece into smaller coin — and he was “ feeling 
as if he needed warming up, like, after all this plaguy wind.” 

He glanced at the coin again, with a wistfulness that was 
almost passionate. Then he spat on it, and threw it into the 
refuse from the mistal lying close behind. 

“ Nay, I’ll have honest ale, or none,” he growled, and 
crossed quietly to the house, and stood on the threshold, look- 
ing in. 

He saw Shackleton’s wife bending over Sir Jasper, who 
lay in a swoon so helpless and complete that it was like a 
child’s sleep — a sleep tired with the day’s endeavours, yet 
tranquil and unfearful for the morrow’s safety. 

“Oh, it is thee, is’t^” said Shackleton’s wife, facing round. 
“ Well, he’s doing nicely — or was, till ye let in all this wind 
that’s fit to rouse a body from his grave.” 

“ Well-a-day, mistress,” said the shepherd, with a pleasant 
grin, “ if that’s your humour, I’m for the mistal-yard again. 
It’s rare and quiet out there.” 

“ Nay, now,” she said, glancing up' with sharp, imperious 
kindliness. “ Shut t’ door, lad, and sit thee down by th’ 
peats, and keep a still tongue i’ thy head. I wouldn’t turn 


262 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


a dog out into all this storm that’s brewing up. And, be- 
sides, Sir Jasper’s mending. I’d doubts of him at first; but 
he’s sleeping like a babby now. We’ll keep watch together, 
till Shackleton comes home fro’ his ride to Windyhough. 
He’ll not be long, unless the maids there ’tice him to gossip 
and strong ale.” 

“ fTnight smoke, mistress — just, like, to pass the time? ” 

“ Aye, smoke,” snapped Shackleton’s wife. “ Men were 
always like bairns, needing their teething-rings, in one shape 
or another.” 

“ Better than spoiling their tempers,” said the shepherd. 
And he lit his pipe from a live peat, and said no more ; for he 
was wise, as men go. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 

At Windyhough the gale sobbed and moaned about the leaf- 
less trees that sheltered it from the high moors. Sleet was 
driving against the window-panes, and there was promise, if 
the wind did not change, of heavy snow to follow. And in- 
doors were Lady Royd and Nance, the women-servants, and 
the men too old to carry arms behind Sir Jasper — these, and 
the lean scholar who was heir to Windyhough. 

Simon Foster — he who had carried a pike in the ’15 Ris- 
ing, and felt himself the watch-dog here — had been moving 
restlessly up and down all day, like a faithful hound whose 
scent is quick for trouble. And now, near three of the aft- 
ernoon, he was going the round of the defences once again 
with the young master. 

“ You’re not looking just as gay as you were yester-night,” 
he growled, snatching a glance at Rupert’s face. “ Summat 
amiss wi’ the Faith ye hold by, master? ” 

Rupert was sick with bitter trouble, sick with inaction and 
the frustration of long hopes; yet he held his head up sud- 
denly and smiled. “ Nothing amiss with that,” he answered 
cheerily. “ I’m too weak to carry it at times, that is all, 
Simon.” 

Simon stroked his cheek thoughtfully. “ Well, it’s all 
moonshine to me — speaking as a plain man; but I’ve noticed 
it has a way o’ carrying folk over five-barred gates and walls 
too high to clamber. For my part, I’m weary, dead weary; 
and I see naught before us, master, save a heavy snowstorm 
coming, and women blanketing us wi’ whimsies, and a sort o’ 
silent, nothing-doing time that maddens a body. You’ve the 
gift o’ faith — just tell me what it shows you, Maister Rupert.” 

263 


264 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


The master laughed. It tickled his humour that he, who 
was wading deep in sickness and disillusion, should be asked 
for help in need by this grizzled elder, who had loved and 
pitied him, who had tried, these last days, to teach him the 
right handling of a musket. “Just this, Simon — square 
shoulders, and a quick eye, and the day’s routine ahead. 
What else?” 

“ Then faith is a soldier’s game, after all.” 

“ Yes, a soldier’s game,” Rupert answered dryly. 

And so they went forward from room to room, from loop- 
hole to loophole, that cast slant, grey eyes on the sleet that 
was blowing across the troubled moonlight out of doors. 
And, at the end of the round, after Simon had gone down to 
see if he could catch a glimpse of Martha in the kitchen, Ru- 
pert heard the sound of spinet keys, touched lightly from be- 
low. And then he heard Nance Demaine singing the ballads 
that were dear to him, and a sudden hunger came upon him. 

He went down to the parlour, stood silent in the doorway. 
Lady Royd was upstairs, putting her toy spaniel to bed with 
much ceremony ; and Nance was alone with the candlelight 
and the faded roseleaf scents. With ache of heart, with a 
longing strong and troublesome, he saw the trim figure, the 
orderly brown hair, the whole fragrant person of this girl 
who was singing loyal ballads — this girl who kept his feet 
steady up the hills of endeavour, and of longing, for the bat- 
tle that did not come his way. 

And the mood took Nance to sing a ballad of the last Stu- 
art Rising, thirty years ago, when all was lost because the 
leaders of the enterprise were weaker than the men who rode 
behind them. 

“ There’s a lonely tryst to keep, wife, 

All for the King’s good health. 

God knows, when we two bid farewell 
I give him all my wealth.” 

It was the song of a cavalier, written to his wife the night 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 


265 


before he went to execution for the Stuart’s sake. And it 
had lived, this ballad, because to its core it rang true to the 
heart’s love of a man. And Nance was singing it as if she 
understood its depth and meaning. This was the man’s love, 
royal, simple, courageous, of which she had talked to Lady 
Royd not long ago, for which she had been laughed at by 
the older woman. Yet one man at least had found grace to 
carry such love with him unblemished to the scaffold. The 
resignation, the willing sacrifice for kingship’s sake summed 
up by “ the lonely tryst to keep,” as if this were a little mat- 
ter — the human note of loss and heartbreak when she reached 
the last love confession, strong, tender, final in its simplicity 
— Nance’s voice found breadth and compass for them all, as 
if she had stood by this cavalier long dead, feeling pulse by 
pulse with him. And so, in a sense, she had ; for these royal- 
ists of Lancashire had faults and weaknesses in plenty, but 
they had been strong in this — from generation to generation 
they had reared their children to a gospel resolute and thor- 
ough as the words of this old ballad. 

Nance lingered on those last words as if they haunted her 
— “ I give him all my wealth.” And Rupert, standing in 
the doorway, was aware that, even to his eyes, Nance had 
never shown herself so tender and complete. She leaned 
over the spinet, touching a key idly now and then; and her 
thoughts were of Will Underwood, who had courage of a 
sort, a fine, reckless horsemanship that was needed by the 
Rising; of Wild Will, whose whole, big, dashing make-believe 
of character was ruined by a mean calculation, a need to keep 
house-room and good cheer safe about him. She remem- 
bered her trust in him, their meeting on the moor, the sick, 
helpless misery that followed. And then she thought of Ru- 
pert, standing scholarly and apart from life — no figure of a 
hero, but one whom she trusted, in some queer way, to die 
for the faith that was in him, if need asked. And then again 
she laughed, a little, mournful laugh of trouble and bewilder- 
ment. Life seemed so wayward and haphazard, such a waste 


266 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


of qualities that were hindered by weaknesses tragic in their 
littleness. If Rupert’s steady soul could be housed in Will 
Underwood’s fine, dominant body, the world would see a man 
after its own heart. 

And Rupert had his own thoughts, too, in this silence they 
were sharing. He knew to a heart-beat the way of his love 
for Nance, the gladness and the torture of it; and again he 
wondered, with passionate dismay, that he had done so lit- 
tle to make himself a man of both worlds, ready to fight 
through the open roads for her. He had given her a regard 
that, by its very strength and quality, was an honour in the 
giving and the receiving; he had built high dreams about 
her, feeling her remote and unattainable; but he had failed 
in common sense, in grasp of the truth that a man, before 
he reaches the hilltops where high dreams find reality, must 
climb the workaday, rough fields. He understood all this, 
knew for the first time that his father had been just in leav- 
ing him behind, because the fighting-line needs men who can 
use their two hands, can sit a horse, can face, not death only 
but all the harsh, unlovely details that war asks of men. His 
humiliation was bitter and complete. There was Nance, sit- 
ting at the spinet, the gusty candlelight playing about her 
trim, royal little figure, and she was desirable beyond belief ; 
and yet he knew that she stood, not for faith only but for 
deeds, that he had only gone a few paces on the road that 
led to the fulfilment of his dreams. , 

The silence was so intimate, so full of J:he strife that hin- 
ders comrade souls at times, that Nance knew she was not 
alone. She glanced up, saw Rupert standing in the door- 
way, read the misery and longing in his face. For women 
have a gift denied to men — they see us as an open book, clear 
for them to read, while we can only sight them at odd mo- 
ments, like startled deer that cross the mountain mists. 

“ You’re sad, my dear,” she said, with pleasant handling 
of the intimacy that had held between them since they were 
boy and girl together. 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 


267 


“ No,” he answered, hard pressed and dour. “ I am — 
your fool, Nance, as I always was.” 

“ Come sit beside me,” she commanded. “ I shall sing 
Stuart songs to you — sing them till you hear the pipes go 
screeling up Ben Ore, till I see the good light in your face 
again.” 

Her tenderness was hard to combat. “ I need no Stuart 
songs,” he said, with savage bluntness. 

“ Why, then, you’re changeable. You liked them once.” 

“ I’ll like them again, Nance — but not to-night. It is Stu- 
art deeds I ask, and they do not come my way.” 

Rupert had crossed to the spinet, and, as he stood looking 
down at her with grave eyes, Nance was aware of some new 
mastery about him, some rugged strength that would have 
nothing of this indoor, parlour warmth. 

“ Rupert, what is amiss with you ? ” she asked gravely. 

He was himself again — scholarly, ironic. “ What is amiss ? 
You, and the house where I’m left among the women, because 
I have learned no discipline — it is a pleasant end, Nance, to 
my dreams of the riding out. Your fool, listening to his 
mother’s spaniel whining as she puts him to bed, and the 
empty house, and the wind that calls men out to the open — 
just that.” 

She came near to understanding of him now. While there 
was peace, and no likelihood at all of war, he had been con- 
tent, in his odd, indifferent way, to stand apart from action. 
But now that war had come he reached back along the years, 
ashamed and impotent, for the training other men had under- 
gone — the training that made his fellows ready to follow the 
unexpected call, the sudden hazard. 

“ It is cruel ! ” said Nance, with a quick, peremptory lift- 
ing of the head. “ You could fight, if only they would let 
you ” 

“ Just so. The bird could fly, if its wings hacj not been 
broken in the nest.” 

She knew this dangerous, still mood of his. He was a 


268 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


civilian, untrained, unready, left at home while stronger men 
were taking the hardships. In every line of his face, in the 
resolute, dark eyes, there was desperate shame and self-con- 
tempt; and yet he fancied he was hiding all show of feeling 
from her. Nance felt the pity of it — felt more than pity — 
found the tears so ready that she turned again to the spinet 
and began playing random odds and ends of ballads. And 
through all the stress she took a grip of some purpose that had 
been with her constantly these last days. Will Underwood — 
his dominant, big person, his gift of wooing — had gone from 
her life. She was lonely and afraid, and found no help ex- 
cept along the road of sacrifice — the road trodden hard and 
firm by generations of women seeking help in need. 

“ Let me mend your life for you,” she said, glancing up 
with bewildering appeal and tenderness. 

Rupert was young to beguilement of this sort. Her eyes 
were kindly with him. There was a warmth and fragrance 
round about the parlour that hindered perception of the finer 
issues. And he knew in this moment that even a good love 
and steady can tempt a man unworthily. 

From the moors that guarded Windyhough there came a 
sudden fury of the wind, a rattle of frozen sleet against the 
windows. And Rupert lifted his head, answering the bid- 
ding of the open heath. “ You cannot mend my life,” he said 
sharply. “ How could you, Nance?” 

“ You thought so once.” Her glance was friendly, full of 
affection and great liking; and so well had she been schooling 
herself to the new, passionate desire for sacrifice that Rupert 
read more in it than the old comradeship. “ What have I 
done', that I cannot help you now ? ” 

He was dizzied by the unexpectedness, the swiftness of this 
night surprise. Here was Nance, her face turned eagerly 
toward him, and she was reminding him of the devotion he 
had shown her in years past. He had no key to the riddle, 
could not guess how desperate she was in her wish to hide 
Will Underwood’s indignities under cover of this sacrifice for 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 


269 

Rupert’s sake — Rupert, whom she liked so well and pitied. 

“ Shall I not sing to you now ? ” she repeated, with pleasant 
coquetry. “ If you have no Stuart songs — why, let me sing 
you Martha’s doleful ballad of Sir Robert who rode over 
Devilsbridge, and came riding back again without his head. 
It was a foolish thing to do, but it makes a moving ballad, 
Rupert.” 

Her mood would not be denied. Tender, gay, elusive, she 
tempted him to ask what she was ready — for sake of sacri- 
fice — to give. There was reward here for the empty boy- 
hood, the empty days of shame since the men of the house 
rode out. It was all unbelievable, unsteadying. He had only 
to cross to Nance’s side, it seemed, had only to plead, as he 
had done more than once in days past, for the betrothal kiss. 
He recalled how she had met these wild love-makings of his 
— with pity and a little laughter, and a heart untouched by 
any sort of love for him. And now — all that was changed. 

The moment seemed long in passing. Within reach there 
was Nance, desirable beyond any speech of his to tell ; and yet 
he could not cross to her. It was as if a sword divided them, 
with its keen edge set toward him. He did not know him- 
self, could not understand the grip that held him back from 
her, though feet and heart were willing. Then it grew clear 
to him. 

“ Nance,” he said sharply, “ do you remember the Brig o’ 
Tryst?” 

“ Why, yes,” she answered, with simple tenderness. “ I 
remember that I hurt you there. You pleaded so well that 
day, Rupert — and now you’re dumb, somehow.” 

“ Because — Nance, there has war come since then, and it 
has proved us all.” He laughed, the old, unhappy laugh of 
irony and self-contempt. “ There’s Simon Foster, bent with 
rheumatism, and Nat the Shepherd, too infirm to do anything 
but smoke his pipe and babble of the ’15 Rising, and — your 
fool, Nance. You’ve a gallant house of men about you.” 

And Nance was silent. Some deeper feeling than pity or 


270 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


haphazard sacrifice was stirring her, for she saw Rupert as 
he was, saw him with a clearness, a knowledge of him, that 
would never leave her. In retreat, against his will, in utter 
darkness of hope and forward purpose, he had found the 
right way and the ready to Nance’s heart. His grip of hon- 
our was so resolute. There was nothing scholarly or fanci- 
ful about him now. Through temptation of her own mak- 
ing, through a desire extreme and passionate and easy to be 
read, he had won through to this starry sort of abnegation 
that set well on him. He was no proven man, and he dis- 
dained for that reason to claim a woman’s favours; and the 
breed of him showed clear. 

The wind swept down from the moors with a snarl that set 
the windows shaking. And Rupert, without a backward 
glance, went into the hall and opened the main door. The 
wind came yelping in, powdering the threshold with driven 
sleet and chilling him to the bone. He was aware only of 
heart-sickness, of the fragrance that was Nance Demaine, of 
his need to get out into the open road; and there was some- 
thing in the lash of the sleet across his face that was friendly 
as the moors he loved. 

And as he stood there he heard the tippety-tap of hoofs, 
far down the bridle-road that led to Windyhough. And 
hope, a sudden vivid hope, returned to him. He had not 
needed the warm, scented parlour, the songs of old alle- 
giance; but, to the heart of him, he was eager for this music 
of a hard-riding man who brought news, maybe, of Stuart 
deeds. 

Tippety-tap, tappety-tip, the sound of hoofs came intermit- 
tently between the wind-bursts, and it seemed now to be very 
near the gate. While he waited, his head bent eagerly 
toward the track, Lady Royd came downstairs after bidding 
her spaniel good-night, shivered as the wind swept through 
the hall, and ran forward fretfully when she saw, Rupert 
standing in the doorway. 

“ My dear, is it not cold enough already in the house ? ” she 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 271 

complained. “ You need not let the wind in through open 
doors.” 

“ Listen, mother ! ” he said, not turning his head. “ There’s 
a horseman riding fast. He is bringing news.” 

“ Oh, you are fanciful. This Hunter’s Wind always sent 
your wits astray, Rupert. You heard too many nursery-tales 
of the Ghostly Hunt, and Gabriel’s Hounds, and all their fool- 
ish superstitions.” 

“I hear a rider coming up with news,” said Rupert ob- 
stinately, moving out into the courtyard. “ It may be Oli- 
phant of Muirhouse.” 

Simon Foster, at this time, was just outside the gate, work- 
ing to the last edge of dusk to get in a few more barrow- 
loads of wood for the indoor fires. Not all the scoldings of 
the other servants had persuaded him to so necessary a bit 
of work, but Martha had, when she drew a tearful picture 
of the cold kitchen they would have to sit in to-night if he 
failed them. There were barely logs enough, it seemed, to 
feed the rest of the house, and the kitchen must go fireless. 
And Simon, with steady contempt of household labour when 
he longed to be out in the open fight, had grumbled his way 
to the pile of tree-trunks that littered the outside of the court- 
yard. 

“ And I thought myself a fighting man,” he muttered, saw- 
ing and chopping with a speed born, not of zeal, but of ill- 
temper; “ and the end of it all is just bringing wood in, so that 
silly wenches can sit up late and gossip over a wasteful fire. 
Well, life’s as it’s made, I reckon, but I’m varry thankful I 
had no hand i’ the making.” 

He had filled his barrow, and was stooping to the handles, 
when he, too, heard the beat of hoofs come ringing up be- 
tween the wind-beats. The storm, perhaps, had stirred even 
his unfanciful outlook upon life; for he was strangely rest- 
less to-night, and ready to believe that some miracle might 
come to rouse them from their fireside life at Windyhough. 
He turned his head up-wind, one hairy ear cocked like a span- 


272 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


id’s, and listened for a while. The gale began to fall a lit- 
tle, and he could hear the quick, recurrent tippety-tap more 
frequently. 

He left his barrow, hobbled across the courtyard, saw Ru- 
pert and his mother standing in the light of the scudding 
moon that fought for mastery with the gloaming. 

“ There’s a horse galloping, Simon,” said Rupert. “ Did 
you hear him?” 

“ Ay, I # heard him right enough ; and I’m wondering who 
the rider is. It might be Sir Jasper, or it might be one o’ 
Maister Oliphant’s wild-riding breed ” 

“ Oh, you’re mistaken, both of you ! ” broke in Lady Royd 
fretfully. “ The snow would deaden hoof-beats. I can hear 
none, I tell you.” 

“ Nay,” said Simon stolidly, “ the road’s harder than the 
snow’s soft just yet. By and by it will be different, when the 
wind drops. We’ll be snowed up by morn, my lady.” 

And now her untrained ear caught the tippety-tap, the ring 
of a gallop close at hand. “ It may be Sir Jasper,” she echoed. 
“ Oh, I trust you are right, Simon — so long- as he rides un- 
wounded,” she added, quick to find the despondent note. 

The wind was settling fast. Now and then it yelped and 
whined like a dog driven out from home on a stark night; 
but the snow was falling ever a little more steadily, more 
thickly. And into the blur of snow and moonlight, across 
the last edge of the gloam, the galloping horseman rode 
through the open gate into the courtyard, and pulled up, and 
swung from saddle. He looked from one to another of those 
who stood this side the porch. 

“ Is that you, Master Rupert ? ” he asked, without sign of 
haste or emotion. 

“Yes, Shackleton. What’s your news?” 

“ Sir Jasper’s lying at my farm. He’s ta’en a hurt, and 
sent me forrard — seeing he couldn’t come himself — and he 
said to me that you’re to keep Windyhough against a plaguy 
lot o’ thieves.” 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 


273 


“ What thieves, Ben ? ” 

“ Nay, I know not. He said they were riding an odd mile 
or two behind, and no time to waste.” 

Lady Royd was crying softly in the background, secure in 
her belief that the worst had happened and that her husband’s 
hurts were mortal. Rupert did not heed her, did not heed 
anything except the tingling sense of mastery and strength 
that was firing his young, unproved soul. Through the long 
nights and days of self-contempt he had longed for this. 
When his heart had been sick to find himself among the 
women and the greybeards, he had fought, as if his life de- 
pended on it, for the dim hope that his chance would come one 
day. And, because he was prepared, there was no surprise 
in Shackleton’s news, no hurried question as to how this sud- 
dent onset must be met. 

“ My father sent no other message, Ben ? ” he asked curtly, 

“ Aye, he did, and he seemed rare and anxious I shouldn’t 
forget it, like. He said he trusted you — just trusted you.” 

Rupert had kept his watch, through the sickness of the wait- 
ing-time; and at the end of it was this trumpet-call from the 
father who had bred him. And Simon Foster, watching him 
with affection’s close scrutiny, saw the scholarly, lean years 
slip off from the shoulders that were squared already to the 
coming stress. 

“ Bar the outer gate, Simon,” he said. Then, with a 
soldier’s brisk attention to detail, he turned to Ben Shackle- 
ton. “ How many of them ? ” he asked. 

“ A score or more, so Sir Jasper said.” 

“ Then step indoors. We need you, Ben.” 

Shackleton made a movement to get up to saddle again. 
“ Nay, nay ! I’ve the kine to fodder, and a wife waiting for 
me.” 

“ I’m in command here,” said the master sharply. “ W T e 
need you, and you say there’s no time to waste.” 

Simon Foster came back from drawing the stout oaken 
bars across the gate. “ They’re riding up the gap,” he said. 


274 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ I could hear their horses slipping all ways, master, as if 
the roads had teazed ’em; but they’re riding varry near. 
We haven’t a year and a day to waste in talk, though Shackle- 
ton fancies we have. Besides,” he added grimly, “ the gate’s 
barred, and they’ll be here before you could open it and ride 
through.” 

“ What’s to be done with my horse, supposing I did stay ? ” 
asked Shaekleton. Like a true farmer, he was not to be hur- 
ried, and his first thought was always for his live-stock. 

Simon Foster snatched the bridle from his hand, went across 
to the stables, and was back again before Shaekleton had re- 
covered from his surprise. 

“ That is horse-stealing, Simon, or summat like it,” grumbled 
the farmer. 

“ No,” answered Simon, “ it’s horse-keeping. We need you, 
Ben. The master spoke a true word there.” 

“ And what’s all the moil about ? I relish a square fight 
as well as another; it’s a bit of a holiday, like, fro’ farming 
peevish lands; but I like to know just what I’m fighting for. 
Stands to plain reason I do.” 

“ For the honour of the Royds,” said Rupert, with sharp 
appeal. 

“ Well, then, you have me, master. Just tell me what I’ve 
to do; I’m slow i’ my wits, but quick wi’ my hands, and 
always was; and I learned young to fire a musket.” 

“ It’s a varry good habit to learn,” growled Simon Foster, 
“ ’specially when a body learns it young.” And then again 
he turned his head sharply. “ They’ve come, I reckon, mas- 
ter,” he said, with stolid satisfaction. 

Goldstein’s men had ridden the last mile of their journey in 
evil temper. The track was rough, full of steep hills and 
sharp, dangerous corners that rendered it difficult enough in a 
dry season ; in this weather, and in the snowy, muddled light, 
it seemed impassable to horsemen used only to flat country. 
They were hungry, moreover, and wet to the skin, and their 
only achievement so far was to lose the first fugitive they 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 


275 


had pursued since Derby town was left behind. Goldstein 
himself was thankful for one thing only — that this lonely track 
had no byways opening out on either hand. The road, twist 
as it would, kept to its single line, showing them no choice of 
route in a country unknown and difficult. 

It seemed interminable, this travelling at a slow, uneasy 
trot over broken ground; but, just as he began to fear that 
his men would mutiny outright, he looked up the rise ahead 
and saw lights twinkling through the moonlit storm of snow. 
The lights were many, blinking down on him from a house 
that surely, by the length of its front, was one of quality. 

“ We’re home, my lads,” he said, with a sharp laugh of re- 
lief. “ That yokel lied about the distance.” 

“ Time we were,” snarled one of the troopers, with a 
rough German oath. 

Goldstein did not heed, but slipped from saddle and put a 
hand to the courtyard gate. When he found it barred, he 
thrust his heavy bulk against it. It did not give to his 
weight. And this daunted him a little ; for he had not looked 
for resistance of any sort, once they had reached the end of 
this- long, hilly road. He had pictured, indeed, a house of 
women, with only the Prince and Sir Jasper to stand against 
them, a swift surprise, and after that food and licence and 
good liquor to reward them for the hardships of the day. He 
kicked the gate impatiently, and cried to those within to open ; 
and the dogs shut up in kennel answered him with long, run- 
ning howls. 

Rupert standing with Simon Foster on the threshold of the 
porch, felt gaiety step close to his elbow, like a trusted friend. 
He crossed the yard and stood just this side the gateway. 

“ Who knocks ? ” he asked. 

“ The King,” snapped Goldstein. 

“ You will be more explicit,” said Rupert, with a touch 
of the old scholarly disdain. “ By your voice, I think you 
come from Hanover. We serve the Stuart here.” 

Through the spite of the falling wind, through his weari- 


276 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


ness of mind and body, Goldstein knew that a gentleman 
stood on the far side of this gateway. And breeding, in a 
farm-hand or a king, disturbed his sordid outlook on this 
life. 

“You’ll not serve him long. Where’s Sir Jasper Royd ? ” 

“ Somewhere on the open road, following his Prince. I 
am his son, and master here, at your service, till he re- 
turns.” 

Nance, hearing the confusion out of doors, had run into 
the courtyard. Lady Royd was standing apart, as if nothing 
mattered, now she had heard that Sir Jasper lay wounded at 
the farm ; if her man had not been strong enough to ride in 
and guard her at such a time, he must be near to death, she 
felt. She had made him her idol, starving her sons of love 
because the father claimed it; and she was paying her debts 
now, in confusion and humiliation. Nance scarcely heeded 
her. Her eyes passed from Simon and Ben Shackleton to 
the slim, erect figure at the gate, and instinctively she crossed 
to Rupert’s side. There was peril on the far side of this 
gate — peril grave and urgent — and yet she was conscious only 
of a thrill of pride and tenderness. The scholar had longed 
for his chance to come; and the answer had reached him, 
without warning or preparation, from the heart of the stormy 
night. Her thoughts were running fast; she contrasted Will 
Underwood’s response to the first call of the Rising with Ru- 
pert’s gay acceptance of this hazard; and she was glad to be 
here at Windyhough. 

“ Sir Jasper’s ‘ on the open road, following his Prince ’ ? ” 
mimicked Goldstein, breaking the uneasy silence. “ To be 
plain, he has followed the Pretender indoors here, and I know 
it.” 

Rupert had known only that he was bidden to guard the 
house against what Shackleton had named “ a plaguy lot o’ 
thieves,” had accepted the trust with soldierly obedience; but 
the venture showed a new significance. He was cool-headed, 
practical, now that his years of high dreaming were put to 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 


277 

the touchstone; and he snatched at Goldstein’s explanation 
of this night assault. 

“You think the Prince is a guest here at Windyhough?” 
he asked suavely. 

“ I know it. We’ve followed the two of them over the 
foulest bridle-track in England — just because we were so 
sure.” 

Sir Jasper’s heir looked at the sturdy, snow-blurred gate 
that stood between the honour of his house and these troopers, 
whose oaths, with an odd lack of discipline, threaded all their 
leader’s talk. And he laughed, so quietly that Nance glanced 
sharply up, thinking his father had returned; for Sir Jasper 
carried just this laugh in face of danger. 

“The Prince is here?” he said. “Then hack your way 
through the gate and take him. He is well guarded.” 

Goldstein, chilled for a moment by the unexpected strength 
of the defence, grew savage. “You’ll not surrender?” 

“ No Royd does, sir. We liye leal, or we die leal.” 

“ Then God help you when my troopers hack a way in ! 
They’re not tame at any time, and your cursed roads have not 
smoothed their tempers.” 

“We are waiting,” said the master quietly. 

“ Oh, well done, Rupert ! ” whispered Nance, with a light 
touch on his arm. 

He looked down at her — down and beyond her, for in 
truth he had no need of Stuart glamour till this night’s busi- 
ness was well through. “You Nance? Get back to the 
house, and take my mother with you; the gate will be down, 
I tell you, and after that — it will be no place for women. And 
Simon,” he added, “ bring three muskets out. Hurry, man ! ” 

Nance, high-spirited and new to commands of this sharp, 
peremptory kind, went submissively enough, she knew not 
why. And, near the porch, she found Lady Royd busy with 
the spaniel which had run out to find her. 

“ Poor little man ! ” Sir Jasper’s wife was murmuring, as 
she kissed the foolish, pampered brute that, under happier 


278 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


auspices, would have been a dog. “ He missed me, Nance, 
and he came, getting wet feet in the snow, and you know how 
delicate he is. He is all I have, Nance,” she added, with a 
touch of pathos, real in its futility “ since — since they told me 
Sir Jasper was dying at the farm.” 

Nance remembered how Rupert had met the sudden call to 
arms, and gathered something of his buoyancy. “ Sir Jas- 
per is not dying,” she said sharply. “ I’ll not believe it. He 
will come by and by, when he has recovered from his 
wound ” 

“You think he will come?” put in the other, helpless and 
snatching at any straw of comfort. 

“ Oh, I know it ; but we must get indoors, and let Rupert 
guide the siege.” 

Lady Royd had not learned the true gaiety of danger; but 
Nance, from the childhood shared with hard-riding brothers, 
had gained a courage and experience that served her well 
just now. None knew what would chance to Windy hough 
before the dawn; and, for her part, she did not look before 
or after, but took the present as it came. And her instinct 
was Rupert’s, as she shepherded Lady Royd into the hall — 
that here at last, thank God! was action after long sitting by 
the hearth. 

Captain Goldstein, meanwhile, convinced that his entry into 
Windyhough was not to be bloodless, after all, had tried his 
strength once more against the gate of the courtyard, and, 
finding it solid, had cast about for some way of breaking 
through it. The moon was making greater headway now 
through the rifted snow-clouds, and he saw the pile of tree- 
trunks at which Simon Foster had been busy until Sir Jas- 
per’s messenger had disturbed him at the wood-chopping. 

Like his troopers, Goldstein was wet and hungry and im- 
patient, and his one thought was to rive the gate down, 
whatever strength opposed him on the far side of it. He 
gave a sharp order, and six of his men lifted a trunk of syca- 
more, and poised it for a while, and rammed the gate. The 


THE GLAD DEFENCE 


279 

first thrust strained the gate against the cross-bars, and broke 
back sharply on the men who held the ram, disordering them 
for a moment. 

The master waited, his musket ready primed. “ Simon,” 
he said, “ and you, Ben Shackleton, we’re bidden to hold the 
house, but gad! we’ll do a little in the courtyard first.” 

Goldstein’s men came at the gate again, struck savagely, 
found by chance a weak spot in the wood. And this time 
they splintered a wide opening. They drew back a little, to 
get their breath, and through the opening Rupert saw faintly 
in the moonlight the half of a man’s body. Simon Foster, 
watching him, saw a still, passionless light steal into his 
eyes as he lifted the musket to his shoulder and fired with 
brisk precision. There was a cry of anguish from without, 
a sudden, heavy fall, and afterwards the guttural voice of Cap- 
tain Goldstein, bidding his troopers clear the dead away and 
ram the gate again. 

Rupert, for his part, was reloading. And he was tasting 
that exquisite, tragic glee known only to those who kill their 
first man in righteous battle. He was drinking from a well 
old as man’s history ; and its waters, while they swept com- 
punction and all else away, gave him a strange zest for this 
world’s adventures. 

The troopers were desperate now. They rammed the splin- 
tered gate with a fury that broke the cross-bars; and Lady 
Royd, watching it all from the porch, saw a troop of savages, 
dusky in the moonlight — let loose from hell, so it seemed 
to her disordered fancy — swarm through the opening. She 
glanced at Rupert, saw him take careful aim again; and this 
time there was no cry from the fallen, for he dropped dead in 
his paces, so suddenly that the man behind tripped over him. 

Simon Foster, who had preached the gospel of steadiness 
so constantly to the young master, aimed wildly at Goldstein, 
and missed him by a foot; but Shackleton, slow and sure by 
temperament, picked out a hulking fellow for his mark and 
hit him through the thigh. 


280 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Get to the house ! ” said Rupert, his new mastery sitting 
firm and lightly on him. 

Like the Prince in retreat, he stood aside till his men had 
found safety, and then passed in himself. A few shots spat- 
tered on the house-front, and one grazed his shoulder; but the 
enemy were huddled too close together in the courtyard, and 
they jostled one another while talking hurried aim. Just in 
time he leaped across the threshold, clashed the main door in 
Goldstein’s face, and shot the bolts home. 

Inside, the first note that greeted him was the yapping of 
his mother’s spaniel. And his eyes sought Nance’s with in- 
stinctive humour. 

“ Rupert, how can you smile ? ” asked Lady Royd, dis- 
traught and fretful. 

“ Because needs must, mother,” he answered gently. “ And 
now, by your leave, you will take Nance upstairs. There’s 
work to be done down here.” 

Nance touched his arm in passing. He did not know it. 
Body, and soul, and mind, he was bent on this work of holding 
Windyhough for his father and the Prince. He had lived 
with loneliness and patience and denial of all enterprise; and 
now there was a virile havoc about the house. 

“ Now for the good siege, Simon,” he said, listening to the 
uproar out of doors. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE BRUNT OF IT 

The master turned from the doorway to find the women- 
servants and old Nat, the shepherd, crowded at the far end 
of the hall. They were agape with mingled fear and curiosity, 
and they were chattering like magpies. 

“ We’ll be murdered outright,” said the kitchen-maid, her 
pertness gone. 

“ Aye,” wept the housekeeper, “ and me that has prayed, 
day in and day out for fifty years, that I’d die easy and 
snuglike i’ my bed. There’s something not modest in dying 
out o’ bed, I always did say.” 

The master flashed round on them; and, without a word 
said, they obeyed the new air of him, and crept shamefacedly 
along the corridor. Only Nat stood his ground — Nat, who 
was old beyond relief, whose hand shook on the long clay 
pipe that ceased burning only when he slept. 

“ There’s a terrible moil and clatter, master,” he said, laugh- 
ing vacantly. “ There’ll be an odd few wanting to get in- 
doors, I reckon.” 

“ Yes, Nat, yes,” said the master impatiently. 

“ Well, ye munnot let ’em. And there’ll be a fight like ; 
but, bless ye, ’twill be naught to what we saw i’ the ’15 Ris- 
ing. I was out i’ it wi’ your father, and men were men i’ 
those days. Eh, but there were bonnie doings ! ” 

Nat had forgotten that the ’15 had been more hapless and 
ill-conducted than this present Rising. He was back again 
with the young hope, the young ardour, that had taken him 
afield; and he was living in the dotard’s sanctuary, where all 
old deeds seem well done and only the present lacks true 
warmth and colour. 


281 


282 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ He tells his lie varry well, and sticks to it,” laughed 
Simon Foster. “ I was out i’ that Rising myself, master, as 
you know, and if there were any bonnie doings, I never 
chanced on them.” 

“ Nat is not wise. Let him be,” said the master, with a 
chivalrous regard that was cradled deep in the superstitions 
of the moor. 

The men without were battering uselessly at the great, 
nail-studded door. It had been built in times when callers 
were apt to come knocking on no peaceful errand; and it 
was secure against the battering-ram that had splintered the 
weaker courtyard gate. For all that, Rupert bade Simon 
and Ben Shackleton help him to up-end the heavy settle that 
stood along the wall. They buttressed the door with it, and 
were safe on this side of the house from any rough-and-ready 
method of attack. 

Then Rupert, precise in his regard for detail, led them to 
the kitchens. The women were huddled over a roaring fire 
of logs — the fruits of Simon’s industry not long ago — but 
Rupert did not heed them. The mullioned windows of the 
house were stout and narrow, and the only inlet, now the 
main door was safe, was by this kitchen entrance. The door 
was not wide enough to admit more than one man at a time, 
and its timbers could be trusted to resist attack until warn- 
ing had been given to the garrison. 

“ Martha,” said the master, choosing by instinct the one 
reliable wench among these chatterboxes, “ your post is at the 
door here. You will warn us if there is trouble on this side.” 

“ Oh, aye,” she answered cheerfully. “ I’ve clouted a 
man’s lugs before to-day, and can do it again, I reckon.” 
And she picked up her milking-stool, which was lying under 
the sink in readiness for the morrow’s milking, set it down 
by the door, and seated herself with a deliberation that in 
itself suggested confidence. 

Then the master went upstairs, with a light step, and sta- 
tioned himself at the window, wider and more perilous than 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


283 


any loophole, which overlooked the main door. It was the 
post of greatest hazard, given him by his father in that make- 
believe of defence which had preceded Sir Jasper’s riding- 
out. 

Rupert glanced down at the six muskets, the powder flask, 
the little heap of bullets that lay along the window-sill. “ We 
thought them nursery-toys, Simon ? ” he said, with his whim- 
sical, quick smile. “ We even took the glass out from the 
window, pretending that we must be ready for the sharp 
attack.” 

“ Drill pays,” growled Simon. “ Aye, keep hard at it 
enough, and drill pays.” 

“ Yes, faith pays — it is drill, as I told you.” 

“ Faith can bide. We’re here i’ the stark murk of it, mas- 
ter, and we’ll say our prayers to-morrow — if it hapepns we’re 
alive.” 

Rupert took up the muskets, one by one, saw to the prim- 
ing of them. “ You’ll say your prayers to-night, Simon, by 
getting to your post,” he said dryly. “ Give Ben Shackleton 
the loophole on the west side. That gives us three sides 
guarded.” 

The two men went heavy-footed to their posts ; and Shackle- 
ton turned to Simon Foster when they were out of earshot. 
“ Young master’s fair uplifted,” he said. “ He’s not fey — 
that’s all I hope.” 

“ He’s not fey,” said Foster, blunt and full of common 
sense. “ He’s been a dreamer, and he’s wakened ; and we 
might do worse, Ben, than waken just as bright as he’s 
done.” 

The master stood at his post, and felt the rebound from 
his own high spirits. He looked out at the blurred moonlight, 
the scattered flakes of snow, that hid the over-watching hills 
from him. The old self-doubt returned. He was pledged 
to keep the house secure — he who had been left behind be- 
cause he was not trained to join the Rising. And he had little 
skill, except for dreams of high endeavour. 


284 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


He lifted his head suddenly. From the courtyard below he 
heard the hum of guttural voices. Goldstein and his men were 
still gathered about the main doorway, hungry, wet to the 
skin, irresolute as to the best plan of action. 

Rupert was no dreamer now. He could see nothing in the 
yard, through the thick snow and the moon-haze ; but he took 
up a musket and fired at random, and picked up a second gun, 
and a third, and snapped the trigger; and from below there 
came a yelp of pain, a running of men’s feet. And Rupert 
was his own man again, forgetting dreams, remembering only 
that the siege was here in earnest. 

Through the smoke and the reek of gunpowder Nance De- 
maine came into the room. 

“ Where is my post? ” she asked, standing trim and soldierly 
at Rupert’s side. 

Again she was met by the glance that looked through and 
beyond her, as if she stood between Rupert and some settled 
purpose. It seemed so short a while since she had sat at the 
spinet, had seen his eyes hungry with her, as if she were all 
his world ; and now he scarcely heeded her. The riddle was 
so easy for a man to guess, so hard for a woman; and Nance, 
soldier-bred as she was, was piqued by the master’s grave, 
single-minded outlook on the task in hand. 

“Your post, Nance?” he echoed. “With mother, away 
from any chance of bullets.” 

“ Did I shoot so badly, then — those days we practised up 
the fields? ” 

“ No ; but this is men’s work, Nance.” 

“ You have a garrison of three.” Some wayward humour, 
some wish to hurt him, clouded all her usual kindliness. He 
was strong and did not need her; and she missed something 
pleasant that had threaded the weariness of these last days. 
“ There’s Simon, steady enough, but old. There is Ben 
Shackleton. And there is — yourself, Rupert, very young to 
musketry. Are you wise to refuse your last recruit ? ” 

The taunt found its mark. This daughter of Squire 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


285 


Roger’s had an odd power to touch the depths in him, 
whether for pain or keen, unreasoning delight. A moment 
since he had tasted happiness, had had no thought save one 
— that he was master here, fighting an enemy of flesh and 
blood at last. And now the old unrest crept in, the vague 
self-distrust that had clouded earlier days. 

“ We’re few, and have no skill,” he said, with an irony that 
was stubborn and weary both ; “ but I was bred, Nance, to 
put women in the background at these times.” 

She looked at him, as he stood in the cloudy moonlight 
filtering through the window. She knew this tone of his so 
well — knew that her hold on him was not weakened, after 
all. “Oh, you were bred to that superstition?” she said 
lightly. “As if women were ever in the background, Ru- 
pert! Why, our business in life is to dance in front of you 
— always a little in front of you, lest you capture us. Men, 
so Lady Royd says, are merry until — until — they have us 
safe in hand.” 

She dropped him a curtsey; and, before he found an 
answer, she was gone. And the master turned to the case- 
ment, hoping for the sound of a footfall without, the chance 
of another quick, haphazard shot. The wind had dropped to 
a little, whining breeze; but there was no other sound about 
this house that stood for the Stuart against odds. The snow 
was thickening. Rupert watched the flakes settle on the win- 
dow-sill, ever a little faster, till a three-inch ridge was raised. 
And the old trouble returned. This had been his life here 
— the silence, the dumb abnegations, slow and cold in falling, 
that had built a wall between himself and happiness. And 
suddenly he brushed his hand sharply across the sill, scatter- 
ing the snow. It was his protest against the buried yester- 
days. Then he took up the three muskets he had fired, and 
one by one reloaded them. And after that he waited. 

An hour later Simon Foster, stiff already from standing at 
the south window, made pretence that he must go the round 
of the house, lest younger men were not steady at their posts. 


286 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


As he hobbled down the corridor that led to the north side, 
he saw Nance Demaine, sitting ghostlike at the window. 
And he crossed himself, because the habits of fore-elders are 
apt to cling to a man, however dim may be the faith of his 
later years. 

Nance turned. “Ah! you, Simon?” 

“ Why, it’s ye, Miss Nance? God forgive me, I thought you 
a boggart, come to warn us the old house was tumbling 
round our ears.” 

“ Not yet, Simon,” she said quietly. “ I heard the master 
say one side was unguarded — and I knew where the muskets 
were stored ” 

“ But, Miss Nance, it’s no playing at shooting, this. It 
may varry weel be a longer siege than you reckon for, and 
we’re few; and it means sitting and waiting — waiting and 
sitting — till ye’re sick for a wink o’ sleep. Nay, nay ! You 
dunnot know what strength it needs.” 

“ I nursed a sick child once — not long ago. For three 
days and nights, Simon, I had no sleep.” 

The other was silent. All the countryside knew that story 
now — knew how Squire Roger’s daughter had gone on some 
casual errand of mercy to a cottage on the Demaine lands, 
had found a feckless mother nursing a child far gone in fever, 
had stayed on and fought for its life with skill and hard de- 
termination. Yet Nance spoke of it now without thought 
of any courage she had shown; she was eager only to prove 
that she had a right to take her place among the men in 
guarding Windyhough. 

Simon Foster looked at the girl’s figure, the orderly line 
of muskets. She seemed workmanlike; and he approved her 
with a sudden, vigorous nod. 

“ The light’s dim, Miss Nance,” he growled, turning to 
hobble down the corridor, “ but I reckon ye can aim.” 

It was so the long night began. The wind had ceased 
altogether. From out of doors there was no sound, of man 
or beast. The snow fell in thicker flakes, and, working 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


287 


silently as those concerned with burials do, it laid a shroud 
about the courtyard, about the many gables of the house, 
about the firs and leafless sycamores that guarded Windy- 
hough from the high moors. 

On the north side of the house, where the stables and the 
huddled mass of farm-buildings stood, Goldstein’s men were 
preparing to find comfort for the night as best they could. 
From time to time there was a sound of voices or of shuffling 
footsteps, deadened by the snow ; for the rest, a dismaying 
stillness lay about the house. 

To Rupert, to Nance, guarding the north window, to 
Simon Foster, this silence of attack seemed heavier, more un- 
bearable, than the do-nothing time that had preceded it. 
There had been the brief battle-fury in the courtyard, the 
zest of getting ready for the siege; and now there was only 
silence and the falling snow. 

And out of doors Goldstein was no less impatient. He 
did not know that he was faced by a garrison so slender; for 
there is a strength about a house that has shown one bold 
front to attack, and afterwards gives no hint of the numbers 
hidden by its walls. Already two were dead, and two badly 
wounded, from among his company of one-and-twenty ; and 
the rest were hungry, body-sore, and in evil temper. It was 
no time to force an entry. Better wait till daylight, get his 
men out of gunshot, and find food for them somewhere in 
the well-stocked farm-steadings. 

They got round to the mistals on the west side of the 
house — moving close along the walls, afraid of every window 
that might hide a musket — and found Sir Jasper’s well-tended 
cattle mooing softly to each other as they rattled their stall- 
chains. The warm, lush smell of the byres suggested milk to 
Goldstein, and, since stronger drink seemed out of reach, he 
welcomed any liquor that might take the sharpest edge of 
hunger from his men. He bade them milk the cows; and 
into the midst of this tragic happening that had come to 


288 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


Windyhough there intruded a frank, diverting comedy, as the 
way of life is, Not one of them had milked a cow before, 
or guessed that Martha had been busy with her pail already; 
but each thought it a simple matter, needing no more than a 
man’s touch on the udders. They found a milking-stool aban- 
doned long ago by Martha because one leg was unstable, and 
one by one they tried their luck. The first who tried was 
kicked clean off the stool; the next man made a beginning so 
foolish and unhandy that the roan cow looked back at him in 
simple wonderment ; and Goldstein, a better officer than his 
men understood, welcomed the laughter and uproar that 
greeted every misguided effort to fill the milking-pail. They 
had not laughed once since Derby, these men who were get- 
ting out of hand. 

By and by the sport palled on them; and Goldstein, faced 
once again by their hunger and unrest, found all his senses 
curiously alert. From the laithe, next door to the byres, he 
heard the bleating of sheep in-driven yesterday from the high 
lands when the weather-wise were sure that snow was coming.. 

“ There’s food yonder, lads,” he said sharply. “ Drink can 
wait.” 

He opened the laithe door, stood back a while from the 
steam that greeted him — the oily heat of sheep close packed 
together. The moonlight and the snow filtered in together 
through the big, open doors as he ran forward, caught a ewe 
by the neck, and dragged her out. And they dispatched her 
quickly ; for butchery came easy to their hands. 

A little while after, as Rupert stood at his post by the win- 
dow overlooking the main door — waiting for something to 
happen, as of old — he heard a slow, heavy footfall down the 
corridor. A blurred figure of a man stood in the doorway — 
for the moon’s light was dim and snowy — and the master 
could only guess from the square, massive bulk who was this 
night visitor. 

“ They’ve lit a fire on the west side o’ the house, master,” 
came Shackleton’s big voice. “ What it means I couldn’t tell 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


289 


ye, but I saw the red of it go kitty-kelpy fair across the snow.” 

Rupert followed him, glad already of the relief from sentry- 
work. Across the west window — emptied of its glass, like 
all the others, in readiness for action — little, pulsing shafts of 
crimson were playing through the snow-flakes. They heard 
men’s voices, confused and jarring; and the red glow 
deepened, though they could see nothing of what was in the 
doing. 

“We couldn’t expect ’em, like, to light their fire within 
eye-shot,” said Shackleton, with his unalterable quiet ; “ it 
would mean within gun-shot, as we’ve taught ’em. But I own 
I’d like to know just what sort o’ devilry they’re planning. 
They might varry weel be firing the house over our heads.” 

“ No,” said the master. “ There are only stone walls on 
this side, Ben — five foot thick ” 

“ Ay, true. But they’re not lads, to light a fire just for 
the sake o’ seeing it blaze.” 

Outside, close under shelter of the house-wall, Goldstein’s 
men had carried straw from the laithe where it was stored, 
had borrowed wood from the pile of timber left by Simon 
Foster at the courtyard gate, and were roasting their sheep 
as speedily as might be. And one adventurous spirit, search- 
ing the outhouses with a patience born of thirst, had found 
an unbroached ale-barrel. The return to good cheer loosened 
the men’s tongues; and Goldstein was content to let them 
have their way until this better mood of theirs had ripened. 

Within doors, Simon Foster had heard the master and 
Shackleton talking at the west window, had joined them, had 
listened till, from the babel of many voices, he heard what 
was in the doing. 

“ They’re cooking their supper,” he said. “ I should know 
the way of it; for we went stark and wet through the ’15, 
and cooked many a fat sheep, we did, just like these un- 
chancy wastrels.” 

Into their midst, none knowing how he had drifted there, 
came Nat the shepherd, pipe in hand — a figure so old, so 


290 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


palsied, that stronger men were moved by a pity deep as hu- 
man courage and human suffering. 

“Eh, now, I mind th’ ’15!” he cackled. “I rode out wi’ 
Sir Jasper — he was a lad i’ those days, and me a mettlesome 
man of fifty — and there were bonnie doings. It was all about 
some business o’ setting King Jamie on his throne — and there 
were bonnie doings. The gentry riding in, and the gentry 
riding out — and the bonnie ladies’ een bo-peeping at them as 
they went; and all the brave, open road ahead of us. We 
shall see no such times again, I warrant.” 

His head drooped suddenly. He fumbled for his tinder- 
box, because in his enthusiasm for days gone by he had let 
his pipe go out. He was a figure pitiful beyond belief — the 
last, blown autumn leaf, it seemed, clinging to the wind- 
blown tree of Stuart loyalty. And the master, in spite of the 
hazard out of doors, halted for a word of compassion. 

“ You did well, Nat,” he said gently. “ Tell us how the 
’15 went.” 

Nat was silent for a while. Across his dotage, across the 
memories that were food and drink to him, he returned to 
present-day affairs. He looked closely at the master, and 
nodded sagely. 

“ You’re varry like your father, Maister Rupert. It seems 
a pity, like, you should be left here, to die like a ratten in a 
trap, when you might have been crying Tally-Ho along the 
Lunnon road.” 

The master winced. “ They’ve not trapped us yet,” he 
said quietly. “ Get down to the inglenook, Nat, and smoke 
your pipe.” 

“ Hark ! ” said Shackleton, his ear turned to the window. 
They’re getting merry out yonder. Begom ! they must have 
found liquor somewhere, to go singing out o’ doors on a 
stark night like this.” 

A full-throated chorus was sounding now across the snow 
and the dancing red of the fire. The words were German, but 
the lilt of them was not to be mistaken. 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


291 


“ I wish I’d known they were coming,” said Simon Fos- 
ter ruefully. “ There was a barrel of ale, master, left i’ the 
shippon because I was too lazy to get it indoors yesterday. 
And they’ve broached it, they have ; and it’s good liquor going 
down furrin throats. The waste o’ decent stuff!” 

Rupert listened to the uproar out of doors. He had a quick 
imagination, and he was picturing an attack by drunken 
soldiery. These men of Goldstein’s, he had gathered, were 
not lambs when sober. He thought of Nance, of his mother 
— thought of the virile, tender love that men of his Faith give 
their women — and the soul of him caught fire. 

“ Shackleton,” he said sharply, “ keep your post. Simon, 
get to yours. And, by the God who made me, I’ll shoot you 
if you sleep to-night ! ” 

He did not see Nance, nor think of her, as he went to his 
own station overlooking the main door. But Nance heard 
his tread, and glanced up, and found the night emptier be- 
cause he did not know that she was near. For men and 
twomen see life from opposite sides of the same hill, and 
always will until hereafter they find themselves standing on 
the same free, windy summit. 

He went to his post, and the long night settled down. 
And nothing happened, as of old. From sheer need of occu- 
pation, he fell to watching the snow fall thick and thicker 
out of doors — tried to count the flakes — and found the dumb, 
unceasing crowd of them enticing him to sleep. And then 
he sought a better remedy. He remembered the man he had 
hit through the opening of the courtyard gate — the others 
who had fallen to his musket ; and he found the odd zest, the 
call of future peril, which spring from action. And to Ru- 
pert the call came with a peculiar sharpness ; for he had been 
accounted slight, a scholar, and he was here in the thick of 
the siege perilous, with a deed or two standing already to 
his credit. 

He was used from of old to sleeplessness, and as the night 
wore on his spirits rose to a surprising gaiety and sense of 


292 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


well-being. His garrison was small ; but he was master of 
his own house, at long last, and he had powder and ball on 
the window-sill in front of him. Whether he lived or died 
mattered little ; but it was of prime importance that he kept 
this house of Windyhough to the last edge of his strength. 

Out of doors, Captain Goldstein had given up all thoughts 
of prosecuting the siege until the dawn. He had detached 
six men from the ale-barrel to play sentry round the house, 
and had got the rest into shelter of the outhouses a half-hour 
later. They were bone-tired, all of them; they were well fed 
and full of ale; and the beds they made for themselves, of 
hay and straw, seemed soft as eider-down. Only Goldstein 
kept awake. He was as weary as any of them; but he had a 
single purpose, as Rupert had. The Prince was in the house 
here ; dead or alive, he stood for thirty thousand pounds ; and 
Goldstein kept himself awake by picturing the life he would 
enjoy, out yonder in the Fatherland, when he had claimed 
his share of the reward. He would squander a thousand of 
the thirty among his men — more or less, according to their 
temper — and would afterwards retire from service. For 
Goldstein, it would seem, d?d not share the Catholic belief 
that, till he dies, no man is privileged to retire from soldiery. 

He kept awake; and by and by he could not rest under 
shelter of the byre that kept him weather-tight. He went out 
into the snowy moonlight, intent on seeing that his sentries 
were leaving no way open for the Prince to escape; and he 
forgot that there were windows looking out at him. 

Rupert was standing at his post meanwhile, finding his high 
dreams useful now that the call to arms had come. He was 
serving for faith’s sake, and for loyalty’s; and service of 
that sort is apt to breed an odd content. 

Across his sense of well-being a gunshot sounded — quick, 
and loud, and urgent, in this house of silence. He took up 
a musket, and peered through the snow-storm out of doors, 
expecting an assault. And again nothing happened, for a 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


293 


little while. And then he heard a woman’s step along the 
corridor, and Nance’s voice, low and piteous. 

“ Rupert, where are you ? * I — I need you.” 

It was then Rupert learned afresh, with a vivid pain that 
seemed unbearable, how deep his love had gone during the 
past, silent years. She was in trouble, and needed him. He 
ran to her side, but could not outstrip the fears that crowded 
round him. There was the gunshot — and she was hurt ; 
Nance, whom he had longed to keep from the least touch of 
harm, was hurt. 

He put his arms about her. His eyes had grown used long 
since to the dim moonlight of the room, and they sought with 
feverish concern for traces of her wound. 

“ Where are you hurt, Nance?” he asked. 

And “ Here,” she said, with a wan little smile — “ here, 
right through my heart, Rupert. I — I have killed a man, I 
think, just now.” 

So then, through the confusion of his thoughts, he remem- 
bered that the gun-shot had sounded from within doors, and 
his heart grew lighter. “ Why, then, there’s one less of the 
enemy. You should be proud, my dear.” 

“Proud?” Her voice was still and hushed. “You were 
right when you said that this was man’s work. I was watch- 
ing at the north window — and the time seemed long in passing 
— and then I saw a man’s thick-set body coming through the 
snow. And I — I forgot I was a woman, and took aim, and 
he fell, Rupert, so suddenly, with his arms thrown up, and 
lay there in the snow.” 

“ One less,” said the master, with a return to dogged cheer- 
fulness. “ We must get to our posts again.” 

Nance looked at him. Now that he knew her safe, he was 
again the soldier, forgetting the way of his heart and thinking 
only of the need for action. And her pride took fire, as she 
went back to her window, resolute to show him that she could 
be soldierly as he. For a while she dared not look out, re- 


294 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


membering what lay yonder; and then she chided herself for 
cowardice, and peeped through the moonlight. 

The huddled bulk of a man that had lain prone in the snow 
was moving now — slowly, and on hands and knees — and was 
creeping out of range. And once again Nance knew herself 
a woman; for she was glad, with a joy instant and 
vehement, that she had a wounded man only on her con- 
science. 

Goldstein, when the shot hit him at close range, had thought 
the end had come. He was wearied out by long riding over 
broken roads, by need of sleep; and the flare of the gunshot, 
the sudden hell-fire in his left thigh, had knocked his hardi- 
ness to bits. But by and by, when he found leisure to pick 
his courage up, and knew that his wound went only deep 
through the fleshy part of his thigh, he made his way back 
to the stables, and roused one of his sleeping troopers ; and, 
between them, they staunched the bleeding, and dressed the 
wound with odds and ends torn from the linings of their 
coats. And then Goldstein lay back on the straw and slept 
like a little child, and dreamed that he was home again in 
Hanover, in the days before he sought advancement in a 
foreign country. 

At Will Underwood’s house, meanwhile, the laggard gentry 
of Lancashire were sitting over their wine, and were cursing 
this snowfall that would not let them hunt to-morrow. And 
they were troubled, all of them ; for they knew that better 
men were facing hardship on the London road, while they, 
from faults of sloth or caution, were sheltered by house- 
walls. They were men, after all, under the infirmities that 
hindered them; and ease, for its own sake, never yet appealed 
for long to hearts built for weather and adventure. They 
needed hard exercise, to blunt the edge of conscience ; and they 
were fretful, ready to pick quarrels among themselves, be- 
cause they knew that the morrow must be spent in idleness. 

“ We can always drink, gentlemen,” said Underwood, push- 
ing the bottle round. “ That is one consolation.” 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


295 


“ Likely to be our only one,” snapped his neighbour, “ if 
this cursed snow stays on the ground. And we can drink 
half the night, Underwood — but not all the day as well. You 
can have too much of a pastime.” 

“ What are they doing London way, I wonder ? ” put in 
a smooth-faced youngster, gibing at himself and all of them. 
“ They’ll have bonnie roads to travel.” 

Underwood remembered a day, not long ago, when he had 
met Nance Demaine on the moor, recalled the look in her face 
as she gave him her kerchief and bade him use it as a 
flag of truce “ when her men returned from the crowning.” 
He got to his feet and reached across the table with clenched 
fist. “ How dare you ! ” he said savagely. “ We’re all wear- 
ing the white feather, and you twit us with it, you young 
fool.” 

They drew back from him for a moment. His pain and fury 
were so evident, his easy-going temper so completely broken, 
that they thought him drunk, when in reality he was vastly 
sober — so sobered that he saw himself a creature pitiful and 
time-serving. 

And the youngster, taking fire in turn, said that he would 
be called fool by no man without asking satisfaction; and 
swords would have been out had not Underwood’s neighbour, 
a jolly, red-faced squire who liked to drink his wine in peace, 
taken the situation at a canter. 

“ For shame, Underwood ! ” he said, laying a sharp hand 
on his shoulder. “ It would be no duel — it would be another 
slaughter of the innocents. To fight a boy like that ” 

“ Not very innocent, by your leave,” broke in the young- 
ster, with such palpable affront, such pride in his budding 
vices, that the old squire laughed outrageously. 

“ By gad ! not very innocent ! ” he echoed, with another 
rolling laugh. “ See the cockrel standing up to crow — all red 
about the gills, gentlemen. Let’s fill our glasses and drink to 
his growing comb.” 

So it ended in frank laughter as they rose and drowned 


296 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


the quarrel in a roaring toast. But Underwood, though he 
joined them, carried no good look. He was still thinking of 
Nance Demaine, of the white badge she had offered him. 
And an uneasy silence settled on them all. 

“ I heard a queer tale to-day, Will,” said the red-faced 
squire presently, by way of lifting the talk into easier chan- 
nels. “ Old Luke Faweather met me on the road. He was 
coming home from market on that fat, piebald horse of his, 
and he pulled up. He’d ridden wide of Windyhough, it 
seemed, and swore that he heard gunshots through the snow 
— rattle after rattle, he said, as if half the moorside were let- 
ting off their guns.” 

“Oh, Luke!” laughed Underwood, rousing himself from 
his evil mood. “We know his market-days. He hears and 
sees queer things at home-coming — carries the bottle in his 
head, as the saying goes.” 

“ Aye, but he seemed his own man to-day. The horse 
wasn’t guiding him for once. His wife had been at him, 
maybe. He said they were not firing fowling-pieces, but 
something ‘ lustier in the bellows,’ and I could make neither 
head nor tail of it. Who at Windyhough would be playing 
Guy Fawkes’ foolery?” 

“ Rupert, likely,” growled Underwood, some old jealousy 
aroused. “ He was all for joining this precious Rising, till 
he found they had no use for dreamers. He was left to play 
nursery games with the women, and grew tired of it, and 
rummaged through the house till he found the muskets stored 
there.” 

“ That’s all very well, Underwood ; but the lad would not 
go firing into the snow just for the frolic of it.” 

“ Wouldn’t he? I know Rupert. He could dream a whole 
regiment of enemies into the courtyard there if his mind were 
set that way, and go on firing at the ghosts.” 

“ Well, he’s past my understanding,” laughed the squire. 
“ Perhaps you’re right.” 

“ Oh, I can see him,” Underwood went on, old antipathy 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


297 


gaining on him. “ He’s ambitious. He would like to be the 
martyred Charles, and the Prince, and every cursed Stuart of 
them all. It’s laughable to think how much our scholar 
dares — in fancy.’’ 

A low growl went round the table, and Underwood knew 
that he had gone too far. 

“ There’ll be a duel in earnest soon,” sputtered the red- 
faced squire who loved his ease. “ You were never one of 
us, Will Underwood — and you think we’re birds of a feather 
because we stayed at home with you ; but I tell you plainly, 
I’ll listen to no slur on a Stuart.” 

“ Oh, I spoke hastily.” 

“ You did — and you’ll recant ! ” 

Underwood, tired of himself and all things, gathered some- 
thing of his old, easy manner. He filled his glass afresh 
and lifted it, and passed it with finished bravado over the jug 
in front of him. “ To the King across the water, gentle- 
men ! ” he said smoothly. 

One of the company had gone to the window, and turned 
now from looking out on the snow that never ceased. “ All 
this does not help us much,” he grumbled. “We can talk and 
talk, and drink pretty-boy toasts till we’re under the table; 
but what of to-morrow? There’ll be nothing doing out of 
doors.” 

“ Wait,” said Will Underwood. “ When the snow’s tired 
of falling there’ll be frost ; and the wild duck — say, to-morrow 
night — will be coming over Priest’s Tarn, up above Windy- 
hough.” 

“ Gad ! that is a happy notion, Will ! ” assented the old 
squire. “ It’s years since I had a shot at duck in the moon- 
light — and rare sport it is. Come, we’ve drunk to the Stuart, 
and to every lady we could call to mind. Let’s fill afresh, 
and drink to the wild duck flying high.” 

Will was glad when the night’s revelry ended and he found 
himself alone in the dining-hall. He had drunk level with 
his friends, and the wine had left him untouched. He had 


298 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


diced with them, sung hunting-songs, and no spark of gaiety 
had reached him. For, day by day since he lost Nance once 
for all, he had been learning how deep his love had gone. 
Looking back to-night, as he sat at the littered table, with its 
empty bottles and its wine-stains, he could not understand how 
he had come to be absent from the Loyal Meet. The meaner 
side of him was hidden away. He was a man carrying a love 
bigger than himself — a love that would last him till he died; 
and he had not known as much until these days of loss and 
misery came. 

At Windyhough the night wore slowly on. The besiegers, 
since Goldstein crept into shelter, spent and disabled, were 
less disposed than ever to risk attack before the daylight gave 
them clearer knowledge of this house that seemed to have a 
musket behind every window. The besieged listened to the 
silence — the silence of expectancy, which grows so deep and 
burdensome that a man can almost hear it. From time to time 
Rupert went the round of the corridor to see that his garri- 
son was wakeful, and about the middle of the night he found 
Ben Shackleton nodding at his post, and gripped him by the 
shoulder. 

“ What’s to do?” growled the farmer, shaking his big bulk 
like a dog whistled out of the water. “ I was dreaming, mas- 
ter, and as nigh heaven as a man ever gets i’ this life. I’d 
have swopped farming and wife and all for one more blessed 
hour of it.” 

Rupert laughed. He was learning much of human to-and- 
froing during these last days, and his first hot contempt of 
this sleeping sentry yielded to a broader sympathy. “ What 
was your dream, Ben ? ” he asked. 

“ Nay, naught so much — only that I went to Lancashire 
Market and had a pig to sell. She wasn’t worth what I was 
asking, not by th’ half. And t’other chap he wrangled, and I 
wrangled ; then, blamed if the fool didn’t gi’e me what I asked, 
and we were just wetting our whistles on th’ bargain when 
ye wakened me. It was a terrible good dream, master.” 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


299 

“ Well, stay awake to remember it, Ben. These folk out- 
side are too quiet for my liking.” 

Ben’s face was impassive as ever, but his glance measured 
Rupert from heel to crown. He saw a slim-bodied man, 
whose face was lit with a keen and happy fire; he saw, too, 
that the anxiety which had dulled even Lady Royd’s eyes — 
the toast of the county still, though the eyes were middle-aged 
— had only strengthened the light of authority and strength 
which played about his face. Ben Shackleton was slow to 
awake from his dream of pig-selling, but he was aware of 
some settled gladness — gladness that Sir Jasper had an heir at 
last. 

“ Aye,” he said, shaking himself afresh. “ It’s the honest 
dog that barks — the biting sort lie quiet. Well, then? 
What’s afoot, maister? I’m here to take my orders, I reckon, 
as Blacksmith Dan said when parson asked him if he’d have 
Mary o’ Ghyll to be his wedded wife.” 

The man’s lazy tongue, his steadfastness, proved long ago, 
brought an odd peace to Rupert. There were snow and a 
bitter wind outside, and an enemy that only by convention 
could be named civilised ; but within there was a little garri- 
son whose members, on the great, main issues, were not di- 
vided. 

“ Yes. You are here to obey orders,” said the other 
sharply. “ Keep awake at your post, Ben.” 

Shackleton saluted gravely. “ I’ll do it for ye, master, 
though I had a busyish day before I rade hither-till, getting 
ewes down from the high lands — and sleep is sticking round 
me fair like a bramble-thicket.” 

“ Well, you’ve to win through the thicket, Ben,” said the 
master, and passed on. 

He crossed to the north window, saw Nance standing there, 
her trim head lifted to the moonlight as she peered over the 
window-sill; and for a moment he forgot that they were in 
the thick of the siege perilous. 

“ My dear,” he said, with the tenderest simplicity, 


300 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

“ you’d best get to bed. You have done enough for one 
night.” 

She did not turn her head, and her voice was cold. “ Have 
you done enough, Rupert ? ” 

“ Oh, I’m used to lack of sleep, and you are not.” 

She thought of the wakeful nights that had been torture 
to her since Will Underwood returned. First love, built of 
the stuff she had given him, dies hard; for it is the weak 
things that find easy death-beds, because their grip on this 
life and hereafter is languid and of slight account. 

“ I can handle a musket,” she said, turning with sharp de- 
fiance ; “ and our defence is — is not strong.” 

In the silence, across the dull moonlight of the corridor, 
they measured each other with a long glance. And Nance, 
in this mood of hers, was passionately at war with him. Un- 
til to-day he had been her bond-slave, gay when she willed 
it, foolish and out of heart when she flouted him. And now 
her reign was ended. Rupert did not know it yet; but Nance, 
with the intuition that seems to do women little service, was 
aware that she had lost for the time being a cavalier and 
found instead a master. 

“ You can handle a musket,” he said dryly. “ Good-night, 
Nance — and remember to keep your head low above the sill. 
The men outside can aim straight, too.” 

He went back to his post at the window: overlooking the 
main door. And he began to think of Nance, of the brown, 
shapely head that had been magic to him — the head that was 
in danger of a bullet from one of Goldstein’s men. Yester- 
day he would have gone to her side, to ease the fierce pain for 
her safety; his feet were willing, and he wondered that in- 
stead he stood obstinately at his post, intent on musketry and 
the welfare of his house. 

Nance waited for his return. She had had him at call, until 
peril came and the attack in front. She was sure that he 
would come back, anxious as of old lest the world should 
use her ill. But he did not come ; and she felt oddly desolate, 


THE BRUNT OF IT 


SOI 


because he was so resolute and far away from her. Then 
she, too, turned to the moonlit window and to soldiery. 

And th£ night crept on to dawn. From the fowj-yard at 
the rear of the house a cock began to crow half-heartedly. 
Nance, from her window, and the master of the house from 
his, looked out on a grey whirl of snow, reddened by the fin- 
gers of a frosty dawn. 

And nothing happened, as the way had been these days at 
Windyhough. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE NEED OF SLEEP 

Goldstein, when he awoke the next morning to find himself 
laid on the stable straw with a dull ache in his left thigh, re- 
membered the business that had brought him here, and tried 
to rise. He found himself sick and useless, and, getting to 
his feet by sheer hardihood, fell back again with a black mist 
about his eyes. Little by little he began to accept the situa- 
tion as it stood, and he waited till his head was fairly clear 
again. He did not propose, so long as he had breath, to 
abandon his project of securing the blood-money that would 
secure him a life of ease in the Fatherland; and his troopers, 
when he gave his commands for the day with brisk precision, 
liked him better, seeing his pluck, than they had done since 
the beginning of this ill-starred errand. He reminded them, 
moreover, of their slain, lying here and there about the court- 
yard; and revenge is a fire that kindles men’s courage and 
hard obstinacy. 

A little while later, as Rupert peered through the dawn- 
red snow of the courtyard, he heard a gruff voice from below. 
It was the sergeant’s who was Goldstein’s deputy. 

“ I want to come within gunshot of your window,” he said. 

“ Every man to his taste,” laughed Rupert, glad of any 
respite from his vigil. “ If you need lead, I can entertain 
you.” 

“ Under truce.” 

“ There can be no truce. I hold my house for the King, 
and mean to keep it.” 

“ But listen. Give us the Pretender — we know as well as 
you do that he’s hiding here — and the rest of you can pass 
out in safety.” 


302 


TH3E NEED OF SLEEP 


303 


“The Prince is here you think? Why, then, we guard 
him, sir — what else is possible ?” 

“You’ll not give five minutes’ truce? Captain Goldstein 
is wounded ” 

“ I’m devilish glad to hear it,” said Rupert, with the gaiety 
that would not be denied.” 

“ He sends me to talk over this little matter of the siege.” 

“ Then step out into the open — under truce — and let me 
see your face.” 

Some quality of honour in Rupert’s voice reached the ser- 
geant. As he put it to himself, he knew the man for a 
fool who kept his word. The snow had all but ceased for a 
while, and in the keen dawnlight Goldstein’s man looked up 
and saw Rupert’s grave, clean-cut face at the window over- 
head. 

“ Your garrison is weak. We know it,” said the sergeant. 

“ You lie. Our garrison is strong,” Rupert answered 
bluntly. 

“How strong?” put in the other, trying clumsily to catch 
him unawares. 

“ Force your way in and learn.” 

“ But surely we can drive a bargain ? There’s a price on 
the Pretender’s head — a trifle of thirty thousand pounds — 
and you can share it with us, if you will.” 

A sudden loathing came to Rupert as he listened to the 
man’s thick, guttural persuasiveness. These hired soldiery 
of the enemy seemed to have only two views of a man — that 
he could be bullied or be bought. 

“ Go back to Captain Goldstein,” he said. “ Tell him that 
we’re strong to stand a siege, and that — we are gentlemen of 
Lancashire who hold the house.” 

The sergeant glanced narrowly at the face above, and a sus- 
picion took sudden hold of him. This man with the disdain- 
ful, easy air might be the Prince himself. He remembered 
the condition “dead or alive” attached to the blood-money, 
lifted his carbine, and fired point blank. The ball went wide 


304 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


a little ; but for a moment Rupert thought that he was hit, as 
the splintered masonry cut across his forehead. Then he 
stooped, picked up a musket, and took flying aim at the man 
below — without avail, as he thought. It would have cheered 
him to see the sergeant limp round the corner of the house 
toward the stables. 

“Well?” asked Goldstein, cursing the pain that touched 
him as he moved quickly round. “ Did the young rebel come 
to terms? ” 

“ He came to the butt-end of a musket against his shoulder, 
and the bullet grazed my knee. I shall limp for days to 
come.” 

“ Then limp, you fool ! What is a grazed knee with the 
Pretender indoors yonder ” 

“ I’ve seen the Pretender,” said the other, getting out his 
pipe and filling it. “ The young rebel, as you call him — the 
man who pretends to be Sir Jasper’s son — is Charlie Stuart. 
Face, and big, careless air, and belief that truce means truce 
in wartime — he’s Charlie to the life, the Charlie who got as 
far as Derby and then, with all before him, went back again.” 

Goldstein, with nothing to do except nurse his wound, had 
been thinking much the same, had been reckoning up, too, 
the chances of this enterprise. 

“ They’re weak in numbers,” he said by and by. 

“ I’m not so sure. They’re quick enough to fire from all 
four sides of the house.” 

“ Yes, but the Stuart whelp would have led a sortie before 
this if they’d been strong.” 

“ True,” growled the sergeant, old at campaigning. “ How 
long shall we give them, Captain ? ” 

“ A day or two. See to the sentries, keep out of fire, and 
we’ll see what the waiting-time will do for them. It’s a devil’s 
game, waiting for action that never comes — we learned that, 
Randolph, in the old Flanders days.” 

“ Aye, we learned fear,” said the sergeant, harking back 
to some lonely enterprises that he had shared with Goldstein. 


THE NEED OF SLEEP 


305 


Within-doors Rupert kept his post. The brief excitement 
of his skirmish with the sergeant was gone. His fancy, 
always active, was racing now. He pictured, with a minute- 
ness painful in its vividness, the shrift his women-folk would 
meet at the hands of the enemy without. Men who could 
not honour a truce of their own asking differed little from the 
brutes. And he was almost single-handed here, the master 
of a garrison so small that it was laughable. 

The snow, after an hour or so, began to fall agin. And 
round about the house there was a silence that could be felt. 
Those who have played sentry, hoping constantly for the re- 
lief of action, know the stealthy, evil fears that creep into a 
man’s mind, know the crude, imminent temptation that sleep 
offers them, know jthe persuasive devil at their elbow who 
asks them why they take this trouble for a cause lost already. 

All that day there was silence and the falling snow. And 
all night there was silence, broken only by a little wind that 
sobbed about the house ; and Goldstein and the sergeant, nurs- 
ing their wounds in the stable, could have told Rupert every 
symptom of the malady from which he suffered. They had 
gone through it years ago. 

Lady Royd, for her part, showed bright against the dull 
canvas of the siege. She discovered, in her own haphazard 
way, that years of communion with Sir Jasper had taught her 
courage when the pinch of danger came. She still kept her 
pampered spaniel under her arm ; but, in between the sleep she 
snatched fitfully, she moved about the house as the mistress 
and great lady. She kept up the flagging spirits of the 
women-servants, saw that the men had food and wine to keep 
their strength alive. And, now and then, she stole into the 
room overlooking the main door, and stood watching her son 
— bone of her bone — keep steady at his post. And after- 
wards she would withdraw, a happiness like starshine going 
with her because the heir, despite her weak handling of his 
destiny, was after all a man. 

The next day broke with keen frost and a red sun that 


306 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


forced its way through the last cloudbanks of the snow. And 
the sergeant asked Goldstein for his orders. 

“ Let ’em wait,” grinned Goldstein. “We know the game, 
Randolph, eh? Let ’em wait till nightfall. Change sentries 
every two hours. It’s devilish cold, and we must humour our 
ill-licked cubs. And, Randolph ” 

“Yes, Captain?” 

“ Remember, thirty thousand pounds are worth the waiting 
for.” 

The master of Windyhough still kept his post; but, as the 
day wore on, he knew that he was facing disastrous odds. 
Across his eyes sleep began to weave slim and filmy cobwebs. 
He brushed them savagely away ; but a moment later the hid- 
den enemy was once again at work. It was a warfare as 
stealthy as this fight between the garrison, sheltered by stout 
walls, and the besiegers, who could not gauge the strength 
of those within. 

For his health’s sake, the master went the round of the 
house, found Ben Shackleton frankly asleep at the west win- 
dow, and Simon Foster nodding, half-befogged with weari- 
ness. He roused them — not gently — and the struggle to stir 
them into watchfulness cleared all the cobwebs from his 
eyes. 

He went back to his post by way of the north window ; 
and here again he found his sentry fast asleep. Nance was 
sitting on the chair that Lady Royd had brought her, earlier 
in the day. Her brown hair was loosened in a cloud, and her 
face was hidden in her two capable, small hands. She had 
been a sentry to him' — no more, no less, since the fiercest of 
this siege commanded all his ruggedness and strength; but 
he had no wish to rouse her now. 

The waning light showed him the bowed figure, the tired- 
ness that had conquered her persistent courage. He drew 
nearer, touched her bowed head with some stifling war of 
passion against reverence. All the muddled way of his love 
for her — the love that had not dared, because he doubted his 


THE NEED OF SLEEP 


307 


own strength to claim her — was swept aside. At the heart 
of him — the big, eager heart that had found no room till now 
— he knew himself a man. With the strength of his manhood 
he needed her, here in the midst of the siege perilous, needed 
to tell her of his love. 

He moved forward, checked himself, watched the figure 
that was bent by a vigil too burdensome and long-protracted. 
And the wildness left him. The faith that had grown with 
his growing — the faith that had shown signs, a little while 
ago, of wear and tear — laid a cool, persuasive hand on him. 
Through the storm and trouble of this love for Nance he saw 
that she was weak, and wearied-out, and needing sleep. And 
at such times to the stalwart men a little light, reflected, may 
be, from the Madonna’s face, shows like a shrouded star 
about all suffering women. 

Rupert was finding the big love, and the lasting, here in 
the silence that tested faith and courage more than any fury 
of attack and open peril. He went back to his window. And 
again sleep tried to spin her cobwebs round his eyes; but her 
blandishments were idle. 

The snow, about three of the afternoon, ceased falling, and 
across the moors that guarded Windyhough a wild splendour 
lit the hills. The clouds were scattered, till the last of them 
trailed over Lone Man’s Hill in smoky mist. The sun lay 
red and fiery on the western spurs, and from the east the 
young moon rose, her face clean- washed and radiant. Frost 
settled keen and hard about the land, and all the white empti- 
ness of snow grew full of sparkling life, as if some fairy had 
gone sowing diamonds broadcast. 

At Will Underwood’s house, five miles away across the 
heath, the feckless men who had shirked the Rising, took 
heart again. The duck-shooting that Will had promised them 
had miscarried yesterday, because the snow declined to hu- 
mour them; but there would be sport to-night. Civil war, 
arising suddenly, brings always strange medleys, and it seemed 
unbelievable that these gentry could be here, quietly discuss- 


308 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


ing the prospects of their moonlight shooting, while the house 
that was nearest neighbour to Underwood was standing, un- 
known to them, a siege against long odds. For Windyhough 
lay isolated, high up the moors that were untravelled by 
chance wayfarers during this rough weather; it was circled 
by rolling hills that caught the crack of muskets, and played 
with the uproar, passing it on from spur to spur, until it 
reached the outer world as a dull, muffled sound that had no 
meaning to the sharpest ears. 

Rupert did not ask aid, would have resented any. And, as 
the day wore on to seven o’clock — ticked out solemnly by the 
great clock in the hall — he was fighting, with surprising gaiety 
and patience, the battle against silence and the foe without. 
His eyes were not misty now with sleep. His mind was clear, 
unhurried, fixed on a single purpose; and, when now and then 
he made his round of the house, his body seemed light and 
supple in the going, as if he trod on air. He was possessed, 
indeed, by that dangerous, keen strength known to runners 
and night-riders as second wind. 

One of Goldstein’s sentries, patrolling the front of the 
house, chose this moment for a fool’s display of confidence. 
The house was so silent, the strain on the endurance of the 
garrison so heavy, that he thought them all asleep within 
doors, and came out into the open to reconnoitre. 

Rupert saw him creep, a dark splash against the frosty 
snow, and levelled his musket sharply. In this mood of clear 
vision and clear purpose, he could not have missed his aim; 
and the sentry dropped, as a bullock does when the pole-axe 
strikes his forehead. 

And then there was a sound of hurried feet across the yard, 
and another sentry came to see what was in the doing. And a 
second musket-shot ran out. 

“ What is it, Rupert ? ” came a low, troubled voice from 
the doorway. 

He turned and saw Nance standing there, roused by the 
shots, but still only half awake. Not again, perhaps, would 


THE NEED OF SLEEP 


309 


he taste the exquisite, unheeding joy, the sense of self-com- 
mand, that held him now. 

“ There are two less, my dear,” he said. 

She had been dreaming of old days and new, during the 
vigil at the north window that had proved too long for her; 
and she spoke as a child does, half between sleep and wak- 
ing. 

“ I thought you came to me, Rupert, and you held me close, 
because there was danger, and you told me you were proved 
at long last. I always trusted you to show them — how big a 
Stuart heart you had.” 

The master glanced at her. She was good to see, with the 
brown, disordered hair that clouded a face soft with sleep 
and tenderness. And yet he was impatient, as he touched 
her hand, led her back to her seat under the north window, 
watched her yield again to the sleep that would not be de- 
nied. Then he went to his post; and all the new-found pas- 
sion in him, all his zest in life, were centred on the strip of 
snowy courtyard that lay about the great main door. He was 
captain of this enterprise, and till the siege was raised he 
asked no easier road of blandishment. 

For the next hour there was quiet, except that Martha, 
the dairymaid, came upstairs with heavy tread; and, when 
the master went out to learn what was in the doing, he found 
her setting down a steaming dish on Simon Foster’s knees. 

** You were always one for your victuals,” she was saying 
tenderly. 

“ Aye,” assented Simon cheerily. “ An empty sack never 
stands up, they say; and who am I to deny it? You’ve a 
knowledgable way of handling a man, Martha.” 

“ Well, you’re all I have, Simon.” 

“ And that willun’t be much to boast of, if this plaguy quiet 
goes on much longer. I’m fair moiled wi’ weariness, my 
lass.” 

Rupert saw the man, who should have learned riper wis- 
dom by this time, bring down Martha’s head to the level of 


310 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


his own; and he went back to his window, filled with a deep, 
friendly merriment. And still he trod on air, not knowing 
how near he lay to the sleep that would not be denied. 

And by and by, as he looked out in constant hope that 
another figure would come stealing into the moonlit open, he 
heard his mother’s spaniel barking from the far side of the 
house. The dog had heard, though the master’s duller ears 
could not, the voices raised in sharp discussion in the stable- 
yard. News had been brought to Goldstein that the house 
was resolute and wide-awake, if two dead men from among 
his lessening band were proof enough ; and the pain of his 
wound roughened his impatience; and he gave certain orders 
that were to the liking of his troopers, chilled by harsh 
weather and inaction. 

A little later Rupert heard a woman’s step again along the 
corridor and the pampered crying of a dog. Lady Royd, all 
in her night gear, with a wrap thrown loosely over it, came 
into the moonlight of the room, carrying the spaniel under- 
arm. 

“ Rupert, my little dog is restless.” 

“ Yes, mother? It’s an old habit with him,. You feed 
him in season and out. No wonder he has nightmares.” 

“ You never liked him, I know,” she complained. 

He was gentle with her petulance. Her face was stained 
with weariness and fear; she needed him. On all hands he 
was needed these last days ; and the strength of him went out, 
buoyantly, to each new call made on him. 

“ I must like him for your sake, mother,” he answered 
lightly. 

The spaniel slipped suddenly from Lady Royd’s grasp, ran 
barking to the window, and jumped on to the sill. All seemed 
quiet without, but the dog barked furiously, and would not be 
quieted. 

Then from the courtyard a musket cracked. The bullet 
missed the spaniel, went droning through the room, and 


THE NEED OF SLEEP 


311 


touched Lady Royd’s cheek in passing. She did not heed, 
but ran and clutched her dog. 

“ My little man ! ” she murmured, with tender foolery. 
“You’re not hurt? The wicked men, to shoot at a wee 
doggie ” 

“ He’s not hurt,” said Rupert sharply ; “ but you are, 
mother.” 

She touched her cheek, looked at the crimson on her fin - 
ger. And she was the great lady once again. “ Rupert, a 
wasp has stung me,” she said, in her dainty, well-bred voice — 
“ a rebel wasp. You will destroy the hive.” 

And the master laughed, seeing she was little hurt. This 
mother of his was a Royd among them, after all. She had 
not thought of danger as she snatched her spaniel from the 
window, had not winced when the bullet seared her cheek. 
In the quiet, royal way, she gave her quarrel into his hands 
and trusted him to take it up. 

“What’s agate, master?” asked Simon Foster, coming in 
to learn the meaning of the musket-shot. 

“ I can’t tell you, Simon. All was quiet outside ” 

“ Not if the dog heard something,” said the other shrewdly. 
“ He’s sharper ears than you or me.” 

He lifted his head cautiously above the sill and listened. 
There was silence absolute in the courtyard, and within doors 
only the tick-tack of the eight-day clock in the hall, the whim- 
pering of the spaniel. Whatever Goldstein’s project had 
been, it was delayed by the dog’s unexpected challenge. 

Simon scented danger on this side of the house, however, 
and would not get back to his post. And a half-hour later 
his patience was rewarded. 

“ I guess what they’re at,” he said, turning with a slow 
grin. “ My lady — meaning no disrespect — you’d best keep 
your file dog’s tongue still, or he’ll spoil our sport.” 

Lady Royd was learning obedience these days. “ Are they 
your orders, Rupert ? ” she said submissively. 


312 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Yes, mother, yes. Get back to your warm room. You’ll 
take a chill out here.” 

She turned at the door, glanced at him with a whimsical, 
queer air of raillery. “ You men are built after the one pat- 
tern. You need us women till there’s something worth while 
in the doing, and then — why, then, my dear, you send us 
straight to bed, like naughty children.” 

“We keep you out of harm’s way, mother. Good-night,” 
said Rupert gravely. “What do you hear, Simon?” he 
asked the moment she was gone. 

“ Men creeping through the snow ; I can hear their feet 
scrunching over the frozen crust ; and they’re dragging 
branches after them. I was a fool not to listen to the women- 
folk when they asked me to get in yond cartload of fuel I 
left just outside the gate.” 

The master understood at last. “ They’ll be firing the main 
door?” 

“ Just that. And there’s straw in plenty, and the stack o’ 
bracken we got in last autumn, and a barrel of tar left over 
from the spring. They’ve got it all ready to their hands, 
master.” 

“ I’m glad of it,” said Rupert, with the keen, unerring fore- 
sight bred of the vigil he had kept. 

“Oh? And for why, if a plain body might ask?” 

“ Because another night of this would find us fast asleep, 
Simon. I have had to wake you once or twice already, and 
I’ve not slept since Tuesday.” 

“ I can’t rightly follow you,” said Foster, whose wits 
jogged slowly. 

“ Let them fire the door. It’s our one chance. We can 
keep awake, say, for two hours longer, and the fight will 
help us.” 

So then Simon, who thought himself old to warfare, yielded 
to a grudging admiration of this youngster who was fighting 
his first battle. “ Who taught ye this ? ” he asked, with sim- 
ple curiosity. 


THE NEED OF SLEEP 


313 


“ The years behind,” snapped Rupert. 

They listened to the stealthy goings and comings out of 
doors. Between the house-wall and the line of fire from 
Rupert’s window there was a clear five yards of sanctuary; 
and along this track of safety they could hear Goldstein’s men 
scrunch to and fro, carrying fuel of all kinds to the sturdy 
main door that had barred their progress until now. And 
once they heard a gruff command from the sergeant who led 
this enterprise. 

“ Stir yourselves, fools ! ” The rough German tongue 
sounded muffled from below. “ We’ll catch ’em asleep ; and 
there’s thirty thousand pounds indoors, and wine, and com- 
fort ; stir yourselves, my lads ! ” 

Rupert did not understand the language of these hired sol- 
diers, but the rough edge of a man’s voice carries meaning, 
whatever tongue he speaks. 

“ There’s no time to waste, Simon. We must get all our 
muskets down into the hall.” 

He crossed the landing, told Ben Shackleton what was in 
the doing, and the three of them made speed with carrying 
the muskets down. The two older men borrowed something 
of the master’s eagerness and fire, forgetting that they were 
half dead for lack of sleep — sleep, which is more vital to a 
man than food, or drink, or happiness. 

“ They’ll fire the door, and come through the gap,” said 
Rupert, as if he spoke of trifles. “ I take this wall ; you stand 
close against the other.” 

“ I catch your drift, master,” said Simon, with a slow grip 
of understanding. “ We shall be i’ the dark, and they’ll be 
red-litten by a bonfire o’ their own making. And they’ll have 
one shot apiece to fire, but we’ll have six. You frame not so 
varry ill, seeing how young you are.” 

The master, by the light of a solitary candle that stood in 
a sconce overhead, saw to the priming of his muskets, laid 
them in an orderly row along the floor, and watched his men 
while they did the like. And then he bent an ear toward the 


314 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


main door. Its thickness, and the settle up-ended against it, 
let no sound come through, save now and then a dulled oath 
or quick command. And again there was a waiting-time, one 
of many that had come to Windyhough. 

Rupert, sure that he would not be needed for a while, ran 
up the stairs and found Nance still sleeping like a child at 
her post, and roused her gently. 

“ Are you hurt ? ” she asked, scarce awake from a dream 
of onset and of fury that had pictured Rupert in the fore- 
front of the battle. 

And then he told her — quickly, because this was time stolen 
from his work downstairs — that she must get Lady Royd into 
the kitchen, must wait there with the women-servants till they 
knew how the night’s battle went. If the house were taken, 
they were to escape by the kitchen door, find their way to the 
disused farmstead in the hollow, and hide there till Gold- 
stein’s men had ridden off. 

“ But there are only three of you,” said Nance, alert once 
more. “ You let me keep a window for you, Rupert — are 
you afraid I shall go to sleep again if I join your company 
downstairs ? ” 

“ I command here,” he said briefly, “ and you obey.” 

In the thickest tumult women have odd methods of their 
own. “ Obey ? I never liked the word. I come with you — 
where the gunshots are.” 

“ No,” said Rupert. 

And, “ Yes,” she said, an open quarrel in her glance. 

So then the master, by sheer, blundering honesty, found 
the right way with her. “ Nance, you’ll weaken me if you 
come down. Nothing that can happen to me — nothing — can 
hurt me as — as what would chance if Goldstein’s brutes got 
through us.” 

In the hurry and suspense, Nance found leisure — long al- 
most as eternity — to see Rupert as he was. This was his 
courage, this was his love for her — a love asking nothing, ex- 
cept to stand between herself and danger. 


TH1E NEED OF SLEEP 


315 


“ My dear,” she said, “ I think I shall obey.” 

And the master, greatly daring, lifted her hand, and 
touched it with his lips. “God bless you, Nance!” he said, 
as if he toasted royalty. 

He went down the stair, took his place at the wall, and 
stood nursing a musket in his hands. 

“ They’re long in getting their durned fire alight,” ' said 
Ben Shackleton, with a nonchalance bred of great excite- 
ment. 

Simon Foster’s unrest took another form of outlet. He 
crossed to the master’s side of the hall, reached up and blew 
the candle out. “ Best take no risks,” he grumbled. “ You 
were always a bit unpractical, master, though I say it to your 
face.” 

Two hours or so before, Will Underwood had led his com- 
pany of good livers and poor loyalists across the frozen snow 
to the roomy stretch of water that was known as Priest’s 
Tarn. It was a white and austere land they crossed — league 
after league of shrouded, rolling heath that stretched to the 
still, frozen skies. The moon, hard and clear-cut, seemed 
only to increase the savage desolation by interpreting its 
nakedness. 

The company were not burdened by the awe and stillness 
of the night. They had dined well; there was prospect of 
good sport; the going underfoot was crisp and pleasant. It 
was only when they reached the Tarn, and Will Underwood 
looked down at the gables of Windyhough, snowy in the 
moonlight a quarter of a mile below, that some keenness of 
regret took hold of him. Nance was under the roof yonder ; 
and he loved her with a passion that had been strengthened, 
cleansed of much dross, since she put shame on him ; and yet 
he was forbidden to go down and ask how she was faring. 
Even his hardihood could not face a second time the con- 
tempt that had given him a kerchief, because he might need 
a flag of truce. 

“ Here’s Will all in a dream, with his eyes on Windyhough,” 


316 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


laughed the jolly, red-faced squire. “Well, well! We all 
know Nance Demaine is a bonnie lass.” 

Underwood turned sharply, too sick at heart to care how 
openly he showed his feelings. “ We’ll not discuss Miss De- 
maine, sir; our record is not clean enough.” 

The squire was ruffled by the taunt, because he, too, was 
uneasy touching this stay-at-home policy that once had 
seemed so prudent. “ The man’s in love,” he said, with bois- 
terous raillery. “ Here’s Lancashire packed thick with pretty 
women, and he thinks there’s only one swan in the county. 
Will, you must let me laugh. To be young — and sick with 
love — it’s a fine, silly business. And little Nance has 
frowned, has she, when we thought you the prime favour- 
ite?” 

“ If you want a duel,” said Underwood suddenly, “ you 
can have it. The moon’s light is good enough.” 

“We have no swords.” 

“ No, but we have our fowling-pieces — say, at twenty paces. 
The light is good enough, I tell you.” 

There were seven in the party, and five of them at least 
were not disposed to miss their duck-shooting because two of 
their number chose to pick a quarrel. And, somehow, by 
ridicule, persuasion, threats of interference, they staved off 
the duel. And Will Underwood turned his back on Windy- 
hough, regained a little of his old, easy self, and settled to 
the night’s business. 

They put on the linen coats they had brought with them, 
each laughing as he watched his neighbour struggle with 
sleeves too narrow to go easily over their thick wearing-gear, 
and took their stations round the Tarn. They stood there 
silently, and waited ; and they were white against white snow, 
so that even the keen-eyed duck could see nothing in this 
waste of silence except the glinting gun-barrels. 

They waited for it might be half an hour, till the cold be- 
gan to nip them. The black waters of the Tarn showed in 
eerie contrast to the never-ending white that hemmed its bor- 


THE NEED OF SLEEP 


317 


ders. And then the wild-duck began to come, some flying 
low, some swinging high against the moon and starry sky. 
And orie and all of the seven ghostly sportsmen forgot they 
were due with Prince Charles Edward on the road of hon- 
our; for there is a wild, absorbing glee about this moortop 
sport that cancels men’s regrets and shame. 

Will Underwood shot well to-night. He picked the highest 
birds, from sheer zest in his marksmanship; and he saw the 
feathers, time after time, fluff up against the moonlight, 
watched his bird come down with that quick, slanting drop 
which is the curve of beauty. 

Then there was another waiting-time. It was easy to 
gather their birds, for they showed plain against the snow, 
and the green feathers of the drakes glanced in the moon- 
light with a strange, other-worldly sheen. 

“ A night worth living for, Will,” said the red-faced squire, 
as he went again to his station. 

The duck were long in coming, and while they waited two 
musket-shots rang out from the dingle that sheltered Windy- 
hough below. The uproar was so loud on the still air, so 
unexpected, that the men forgot the need of silence, and 
drew together, and asked each other sharply what it meant. 

“ Rupert the cavalier aiming at the moon,” snapped Un- 
derwood. “ He always did. He will wake his lady mother’s 
spaniel.” 

No other shot sounded from below, and they returned at 
last to their waiting for the duck to come over. But Will 
Underwood kept his eyes steadily on the house below, and 
wondered, with an unrest that gained strength every moment, 
if all were well with Nance. He was roused by a sharp call 
from the squire. 

“ Your bird, Will ! ” 

Will glanced up by instinct, saw a drake winging big and 
high overhead, and brought him down. Then he looked 
across at Windyhough again, and saw a flicker of crimson 
shoot up against the leafless tree that guarded it. The flicker 


318 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


grew to a ruddy, pulsing shaft of flame till the roof-snow 
took on a rose-colour. 

Underwood, ruffler, stay-at-home, and man of prudence, 
felt thanksgiving stir about his heart. There was danger 
threatening Windyhough; and Nance was there, and his sin- 
gle thought was for her safety. 

“ Gentlemen/’ he said, with a quiet gravity, “ the duck 
must wait. We’re needed there at Windyhough.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE PLEASANT FURY 

At Windyhough there was an end of watching. Sleep had 
been the one traitor within-doors, and Goldstein’s men, by fir- 
ing the main door, had killed their comrade in the garrison. 
Rupert, fingering one of his six muskets, was tasting the 
keenest happiness that had come to him as yet. Ben Shackle- 
ton, as he watched the timbers of the doorway flame and glow, 
forgot that he had a farm, a wife, and twenty head of cattle 
needing him. And Simon Foster, for his part, remembered 
the ’15, the slow years afterwards, and knew that it was good 
to be alive at last. 

They watched the fire eat at the woodwork, watched the 
shifting play of colour; and, apart from the roar of the 
flames, the cracking of strained timbers, there was silence on 
each side of the crumbling barricades. Then suddenly the 
whole middle of the door fell inward, and in the pulsing light 
outside Rupert saw a press of men. 

And the battle at the main door here was guided with wise 
generalship, as it had been at the outer gate some days ago. 

“ Fire! ” said the master sharply. 

His own musket was the first to answer the command, then 
Shaekleton’s, and afterwards Simon Foster’s. In the red 
light, and at such close quarters, they could not miss their 
aim, and three of Goldstein’s company dropped headlong into 
the flaming gap, hindering those behind them. 

" Fire ! ” said the master again, with quick precision. 

And then the attacking company withdrew a while, after 
sending a hurried, useless volley through the hall. They had 
been prepared for a fight within-doors against a garrison of 

319 


32 0 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


unknown strength, but not for this welcome on the threshold. 

The sergeant, hard-bitten and old to campaigning, was dis- 
mayed for a moment as he looked at his lessened company. 
When they came first to Windyhough this band of Gold- 
stein’s had numbered one-and-twenty. Now, at the end of 
two days, he could count only ten ; the rest were either killed 
or laid aside beyond present hope of action. It was no pleas- 
ant beginning for an assault upon the darkness that lay in- 
side the burning woodwork of the door. 

Then he got himself in hand again. Whatever the un- 
known odds against them, their one chance was to go for- 
ward, now the door was down. 

“ We’ve tasted hell before,” he growled. “ Steady, you 
fools! You’re not frightened of the dark.” 

He sprang forward, and at the moment the last timbers of 
the doorway fell and flamed on the threshold, lighting up the 
whole width of the hall. He saw Simon Foster standing by 
the wall and levelling his musket, and fired sharply and hit 
him through the ribs. And after that was Bedlam, confused 
and maniacal and full of oaths ; but to Rupert the glamour of 
his life had dawned in earnest. 

He fired into the incoming company, and so did Ben 
Shackleton ; and then they retreated to the stairfoot, carry- 
ing a musket apiece. 

There were eight left now of Goldstein’s men, and they 
rushed in with such fury that they jostled one another, hin- 
dering their aim. Eight shots spat viciously at the garrison 
of two, and Shackleton’s right arm was hit by a bullet that 
glanced wide from the masonry behind him. He clubbed his 
musket with the left hand and brought it down on the head 
of the man nearest to him, and then he was borne down by 
numbers. 

Rupert, not for the first time in his life, was alone against 
long odds. But to-night he was master of his house, mas- 
ter of the clean, eager soul that had waited for this battle. 
From the kitchen, where he had bidden his women- folk take 


THE PLEASANT FURY 


321 


shelter, he heard Lady Royd’s spaniel yapping furiously; and 
he smiled, because old memories were stirred. 

He went up five steps of the stairway, singled out the ser- 
geant, because he was the bulkiest of the seven left, and fired 
point-blank at him. After that there was no leisure for any 
one of them to reload; it was simply Rupert on the narrow 
stairway, swinging his musket lightly, against six maddened 
troopers who could only come up one by one. 

It was Nance who intervened disastrously. She did not 
know — how could she — that the master, at the end of a dis- 
maying, harassed vigil, was stronger than the six who met 
him. They were dulled to the glory of assault, but he was 
gathering up the dreams of the long, unproven years, was 
fighting his first battle, was armoured by a faith more keen 
and vivid than this world’s weaknesses could touch. 

Nance, sick to know how it was faring with the master, 
weary of the yapping spaniel and the old housekeeper’s com- 
plaint that she wished to die decently in her bed, out of eye- 
shot of rude men — Nance crept up the back stair, and took a 
musket from the ledge of the north window she had guarded. 
Then she went down again, crossed the passage that led to 
the main hall, halted a moment as she saw Rupert on. the stair, 
the six men below — all lit by the unearthly, crimson flare of 
burning woodwork — and lifted her musket with trim pre- 
cision. 

She had lessened the odds by one; but Rupert, glancing 
down to see who had fired so unexpectedly, saw Nance stand- 
ing at the rear of this battle which was his. And his weak- 
ness took him unawares. He had been dominant and gay, 
because he carried his life lightly; but now there was Nance’s 
honour. One of the five left came up at him, and Rupert’s 
aim was true with the butt-end of his musket; but he was 
not fighting now with a single purpose, and he knew it. And 
sleep, kept at bay through every minute of every hour that 
had struck since Goldstein’s men came first, began to claim its 
toll. 


3 22 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


He could not hold the stair, sleep whispered at his ear. 
And he rallied bravely, afraid for the first time because of 
Nance. If he should fail to keep the stair? A sharp, un- 
reasoning anger seized him. Why was she here? Women 
were good to send men into battle, to bind their wounds up 
afterwards, but in the hot, keen thick of it they had no place. 
Do as he would, his glance kept seeking the little figure that 
stood on the edge of the fire-glow, and the men pressing up 
were quick to see the change in him. 

With a last, hard effort he shut down all thought of Nance. 
The troopers he had stunned lay sprawling down the stair, 
hindering the men behind. For a moment there was respite, 
and in that moment sleep thickened round the master’s eye- 
lids. The confidence, the sense of treading air, borrowed at 
usury from his strength, were fast deserting him. He had 
victory full in sight on this narrow stair, and, like his Prince, 
he felt it slip past him out of reach, for no cause that seemed 
logical. 

Nance did not guess the share she had had in this. She 
saw only that Rupert stooped suddenly, as if in mortal sick- 
ness, then squared his shoulders — saw that one of the men at 
the stairfoot was reloading his musket with deft haste, and 
shut her eyes. For she, too, was weak from lack of sleep. 

Will Underwood, meanwhile, was running down the moor, 
the red-faced squire and the other sporting recusants behind 
him. There was no doubt now that Windyhough was in ur- 
gent peril. They could see the flaming doorway, could smell 
the scudding reek of smoke that came up-wind. 

“ You’re up to the neck in love,” protested the squire, try- 
ing to keep pace with Will. “ There’s naught else gives such 
wind to a man’s feet.” 

A sharp noise of musketry answered him from below, and 
Will ran ever a little faster. The squire’s gibe did not trou- 
ble him. The whole past life of him — the squalor of his 
youth, the sterile abnegation of the Sabbaths spent at Rig- 


THE PLEASANT FURY 


323 


stones Chapel, the gradual change to ease and popularity 
among big-hearted gentry — passed by him like a fast-moving 
company of ghosts. And then another phantom stole, with 
faltering steps and shrouded head, across this vision he was 
borrowing from another world. He saw his cowardice, lean, 
shrivelled, stooping — the cowardice that had been born of 
ease and frank self-seeking. He had pledged faith that he 
would follow the Stuart when need asked ; and he had broken 
troth, because he yearned to keep his house and lands, be- 
cause he had planned to give a ball at Christmas that should 
set all Lancashire talking of its pomp. 

God was very kind to-night to Wild Will. The run was 
short and swift to Windyhough, as time is reckoned; but dur- 
ing the scamper over broken ground he found that leisure of 
the soul which is cradled in eternity. He won free of his 
past. He knew only that the squire had spoken a true word 
in jest. 

He was deep in love. All the ache and trouble of his need 
for Nance were wiped clean away. She was in danger, and 
he was running to her aid; and he understood, with a clean 
and happy sense of well-being, the way of his Catholic friends 
when they loved a woman. Until now it had been a riddle to 
him, the quality of this regard. He had seen them love as 
full-blooded men do — with storm and jealousy and passion- 
ate unrest, but always with a subtle reserve, a princely defer- 
ence, shining dimly through it all. And to-night, his vision 
singularly clear, he knew that their faith was more than lip 
speech, knew that the Madonna had come once, and once for 
all, to show the path of chivalry. 

If Rupert had found happiness during this siege that had 
tested his manhood, so, too, had Will Underwood. With a 
single purpose, with desire only to serve Nance, asking no 
thanks or recompense, he raced over the last strip of broken 
ground and through the courtyard gate. 

“ Be gad ! they’ve been busy here ! ” growled the red-faced 


324 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


squire, seeing the bodies lying black against the snow and 
hearing the wounded crying in their anguish. But Will did 
not see the littered yard, the white, keen moonlight that 
spared no ugly detail. His eyes were fixed on the burning 
threshold — Nance was behind it, and she needed him. 

The fallen doorway, the blazing remnants of the settle, had 
set fire by now to the woodwork of the hall. Will ran 
through the heat and smoke of it, saw Rupert swaying dizzily 
half up the stair, and below him four Hessian troopers, one of 
whom was lifting a musket to his shoulder. He had his 
fowling-piece in hand, half-cocked by instinct when he left 
the duck-shooting for this scamper down the moor. He 
cocked it, and at the moment the trooper who was taking aim 
at Rupert turned sharply, hearing the din of feet behind, saw 
a press of men, white from head to foot, pouring through the 
doorway, and fired heedlessly at Underwood. And Will’s 
fowling-piece barked at the same moment; at six paces the 
charge of shot was compact and solid as a bullet, but the 
wound it made was larger, and not clean at all. 

The three troopers left faced round on the incoming com- 
pany. They saw seven men, white in the linen coats they had 
not found thought or leisure to throw off, and sudden panic 
seized them. Through the stark waiting-time of their siege, 
with the moors and the sobbing winds to foster superstition, 
they had learned belief in ghosts, and thought they saw them 
now. They ran blindly for the doorway. Rupert leaped 
from the stair, and they were taken front and rear. 

When all was done, Rupert steadied himself, stood straight 
and soldierly, scanned the faces of his rescuers, and knew 
them all for friends. 

“ My thanks, gentlemen,” he said, with tired courtesy. 
“ You came in a good hour.” 

He leaned a hand on the Red Squire’s shoulder, wiped a 
trickle of blood from some chance wound that had touched 
his forehead, glanced round at them with dim, unseeing eyes. 

“Have I kept the house? Have I finished?” 


THE PLEASANT FURY 


325 


“ The house is in our keeping now. You’ve done well, my 
lad,” said the red-faced squire, with gruff tenderness. 

“ Then I’ll get to sleep, I think.” 

And he would have fallen, but the squire held him up and, 
putting two rough arms about him, carried him upstairs. 

“ A well-plucked one,” he said, returning quickly. “ And 
now, gentlemen, the house will be on fire, by your leave, if 
we don’t turn our hands to the pump.” 

Nance, watching from the shadows, was bewildered by the 
speed and fury of it all — bewildered more by the business- 
like, quiet way in which these linen-coated gentry went in and 
out of hall, carrying buckets and quenching the last smoul- 
dering flames with water from the stable yard. This was 
war — war, with its horror, its gallantry, its comedy; but it 
was not the warfare she had pictured when she sang heroic 
ballads at the spinet. 

And then the night’s uproar and its madness passed by her. 
She thought only of the master who had all but died just now 
to save the house — to save her honour. She could not face 
the busy hall, the man sprawling on the stair, head down- 
ward, where Rupert’s blow had left him. Instead, she went 
back along the corridor and up by the servants’ stairway, and 
found Rupert lying in a dead sleep in his own chamber, a 
lighted candle at his elbow, just as the red- faced squire had 
left him. 

“ My dear,” she said, knowing he could not hear, “ my 
dear ” — her voice broke in a deep, quiet laugh that had no 
meaning to her as yet — “ they said you were the scholar. 
And I think they lied.” 

She lifted her head by and by, hearing the squire’s voice 
below in the hall. 

“ Where’s Will Underwood ? ” he was asking noisily. 
“ We’ve got the fire under, and we can see each other’s faces 
now we’ve lit the candles. Where, by the Mass, is Under- 
wood ? ” 

Nance shivered. Through her weariness, through the 


326 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


panic of this sharp atack, she recalled the shame of her first 
love, recalled her meeting with Will Underwood on the high 
moors, when he had talked of loyalty as a thing of barter. 

She stooped to touch Rupert as he slept. Here was a man, 
spent and weak; but here, proved through and through, was 
a cleanly gentleman who, against odds, had kept his obliga- 
tions. Old affection stirred in her, and new pride in his con- 
duct of the siege. 

“ Where’s Underwood ? ” came the squire’s voice again. 
“ Is this some prank of his, to hide away ? ” 

“ With Nance Demaine, sir,” answered some pert young- 
ster of the company. “ Where else should he be ? He was 
never one to waste time.” 

“ You’ve guessed the riddle, youngster.” The squire’s 
laugh was boisterous. “ It’s odd to think of Underwood 
lovesick as a lad in his teens — especially just now, with all 
this litter in the hall.” 

Outside the doorway Will Underwood was lying in the 
moonlight. He had been hit in the groin by Goldstein’s 
trooper, just as he answered with a charge of shot at six 
paces; and because the hills had bred him, he needed to get 
out into the open, taking his sickness with him. 

He lay in the snow and looked up at the sky. He had 
never seen a whiter moon, a clearer light, at time of mid- 
winter. Land and sky were glittering with frost, and over- 
head he saw the seven starry lamps of Charlie’s Wain. He 
was in bitter anguish, and knew that his hurt was mortal ; he 
had no regret for that, because he knew, too, that Windyhough 
and Nance were saved. His bitterness was of the soul. 
Strain as he would, he could not shut out the picture — clear 
as the frosty sky above him — of Nance’s face when she met 
him on the moor — years ago, it seemed — and he thought he 
was his own ghost, come to warn her of his death. 

He lived through that scene again in detail, heard Nance’s 
voice sweep all his prudent self-esteem aside. And her scorn 
bit deeper now, because he knew at last the strength of his 


THE PLEASANT FURY 


327 


fine regard for her. Passion was gone. Prudence was gone, 
because men near to death remember that they came naked 
into the world. He had lost the trickeries that had earned 
him the name of Wild Will, and was glad to let them go. 
He was aware only that he lay between here and hereafter, 
in pain of body and soul, and that he might take this last 
fence gladly, as on a hunting-morn, if he could wipe away the 
remembrance of one day gone by. 

Many things grew clear to him as he lay and watched the 
moon. The wrath and pitiless hell-fire of Rigstones Chapel 
yielded to a wider outlook on the forgiveness of a Being 
greater than himself in charity. He found it easy to forgive 
his enemies, to forget his jealousy of Rupert, whom he had 
saved just now. But, warring against the peace he sought, 
and keeping the life quick in his tortured body, was remem- 
brance of that day on the high moors. His work, good or ill, 
was done, and he longed to die, and could not. 

Into the littered hall at Windyhough, while the squire paced 
up and down asking noisily for Will Underwood, old Nat the 
shepherd sauntered, pipe in hand. He was old, and a 
dreamer, and the gunshots and the fury had not disturbed 
him greatly. 

Nat glanced round at the fallen men and the standing, at 
the doorway through whose blackened lintels the keen moon- 
light stole to drown the candle-flames. And he laughed, a 
gentle, pitying laugh. “ It’s naught so much to brag about,” 
he said. “ There were bonnier doings i’ the ’15 Rising. Men 
were men i’ those days.” 

Nance wearied of it all as she stood by the master’s bed 
and listened to the talk downstairs. The house seemed full 
of men, and insolent coupling of her name with Will Under- 
wood’s, and the sickly, pungent smell of blood and smoke. 
She was tired of gallantry and war, tired of her own weari- 
ness; and she went down the stair, stepping lightly over Ru- 
pert’s enemy, and came among them into hall. 

“ Your servant, Miss Nance,” said the red-faced squire, 


328 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


not guessing what a figure of comedy he cut, bowing under 
the folds of a white linen coat. 

“ I thank you, gentlemen,” said Nance unsteadily. “ From 
my heart I thank you. You — you have done us service. 
And now, by your leave, I need to get out of doors. I — I 
have been in prison here.” 

They made a lane of honour for her. They had been lag- 
gards in the Prince’s service; they were recusants, come at 
the last hour to prove themselves ; but they felt, seeing Nance 
step down between them, her face stained with weariness and 
long vigil, 'that a royal lady had come into their midst. 

Nance went through the charred doorway, and halted a 
moment as the pleasant frost-wind met her. The moonlight 
and the clean face of the sky gave her a sense of ease and 
liberty, after the cramped days indoors. The siege’s uproar, 
its stealthy quiet, were lost in this big silence of the frosty 
spaces overhead. 

From the silence, from the snowy courtyard at her feet, a 
groan brought her back sharply to realities. She looked 
down, and saw Will Underwood lying face upwards to the 
stars. He, too, was linen-sheeted, as the squire had been ; 
but there was no touch of comedy in his apparel. It seemed 
to Nance that he was shrouded for his bier. 

They looked into each other’s eyes for a while, and some 
kindness in the girl’s glance, some regret to see him lying 
helpless with the fire of torment in his eyes, fired his courage. 

“ You? ” she said gently. “ You came to save the house? ” 

“ No, Nance; I came to save you. That was my only 
thought.” 

“ They are asking for you indoors. I do not understand 
— you are wounded ” 

“ In your service — yes. They were right, after all — they 
always said I’d more luck than I deserved.” 

She was free now of the bewilderment of this night at- 
tack, the sharp battle in the hall, quick and confused in the 
doing. The moonlight showed her the face of a man in ob- 


THE PLEASANT FURY 


329 

vious pain, a man fighting for every word that crossed his 
lips ; and yet he was smiling, and the soul of him was gay. 

“ I’ll bring help,” she said, turning toward the house. 

“ No; you’ve brought help. Nance, I’ll not keep you long. 
There was a day — a day when we met up the moor, and I 
was your liar, Nance — from heel to crown I was your liar — 
and God knows the shame you put on me.” 

Nance, scarce heeding what she did, took a kerchief, 
stained with gunpowder, from the pocket of the riding-coat 
she had worn, day in, day out, since the siege began. 

“ I keep my promise, Will.” 

Even yet, though Nance was kneeling in the snow beside 
him and he heard the pity in her voice, Will could not free 
himself from some remembrance of that bygone meeting. 
“ As a flag of truce? ” he asked sharply. 

“ As a badge of honour. You are free to wear it.” 

He reached out for her hand, and put it to his lips with the 
reverence learned since he came down from duck-shooting to 
find a mortal hurt. “ As God sees me,” he said, a pleasant 
note of triumph in his voice — “ as God sees me, I die happy.” 

And then he turned on his side. And the pert youngster 
who had coupled Nance’s name with Will’s, coming out in 
search of the missing leader, saw the girl kneeling in the 
snow and heard her sobs. And he crept back into the hall, 
ashamed in some queer way. 

“ Why, lad, have you seen a ghost out yonder? ” asked the 
red-faced squire. 

“ No, sir,” the boy answered gravely. “ It is as I said — 
Will is with Nance Demaine, and — and I think we’d better 
leave them to it.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE RIDING OUT 

Sir Jasper, out at Ben Shackleton’s farm, had been no easy 
guest to entertain since he sought refuge there from the pur- 
suit of Goldstein’s men. He slept for twelve hours, after 
they had laid him on the lang-settle and stopped the bleeding 
from his wound ; and then, for an hour, he had lain between 
sleep and waking; and, after that, he was keen to be up and 
doing. 

Shackleton’s wife, dismayed because her goodman had not 
returned long since from carrying his message to Windy- 
hough, was sharp of tongue, and lacking in deference a lit- 
tle, as the way of the sturdy farm-folk is when they are trou- 
bled. 

“ As you wish, Sir Jasper,” she said tartly. “ Just get up 
and stand on your two feet, and see how it feels, like.” 

He got stubbornly to his feet, and moved a pace or two 
across the floor; and then he grew weak and dizzy, and was 
glad to find his way again to the lang-settle. 

“ Ay, so ! ” said Shackleton’s wife. “ It’s good for men- 
folk to learn, just time and time, how they can go weak as a 
little babby.” 

“ My wife needs me yonder.” 

“ Ay, and I need my goodman here. Exchange is no rob- 
bery, Sir Jasper.” 

“ She is in danger,” he snapped, with a sick man’s petu- 
lance. 

“ Well, so’s my man, I reckon — they’ve kept him yonder, or 
he’d have been home lang-syne.” 

Then weariness conquered Sir Jasper; and he slept again 
till that day passed, and the next night, and half through the 

330 


THE RIDING OUT 


331 


morning. It was his respite from remembrance of the re- 
treat from Derby, from the wound that kept him out of ac- 
tion. 

“ You’ll do nicely now,” said Shackleton’s wife, glancing 
round from ironing a shirt of her husband’s. “ You’ve got 
the look of your old self about you, Sir Jasper.” 

The wound itself was of less account than the bleeding that 
had followed it ; and by nightfall he was waiting impatiently 
until the shepherd saddled his mare and brought her to the 
door. 

The farm-wife looked him up and down, with the frank 
glance that had only friendliness and extreme solicitude be- 
hind it. “ Eh, but you look sick and wambly,” she said 
“ Can you sit a horse, Sir Jasper? ” 

“ I am hale and well,” he answered — fretfully, because he 
felt his weakness and because he was fearing for his wife. 

He got to saddle, and the mare and he went slushing up 
and down the mile of bridle-track that separated them from 
home. He was no longer conscious of pain or weakness ; his 
heart was on fire to see his wife again, to know her safe. At 
the turn of the hill, just beyond the gallows-tree that stood 
naked against the sky, he saw Windyhough lying below him, 
the moonlight keen on snowy chimney-stacks and gables. 

“ Thank God ! ” he said, seeing how peaceful the old house 
lay. 

A little later he came to the splintered gateway, and his 
heart misgave him. The mare fidgeted and would not go 
forward; and, looking down, he saw a dead man lying in the 
moonlight — the trooper at whom Rupert had fired his maiden 
battle-shot. 

He got from saddle, left the mare to her own devices, and 
ran across the courtyard. Here, too, were bodies lying in 
the snow. The main door was gone, save for a charred 
framework through which the moon showed him a disordered 
hall. 

Without thought of his own safety here, with a single, sav- 


332 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


age purpose to find his wife — dead or worse — he crossed the 
hall; and at the stairway foot he met the red-faced squire, 
coming down with a brisk tread surprising in a man of his 
bulk and goutiness. 

“ By gad ! we’re too busy with flesh and blood to care for 
ghosts,” said the squire, halting suddenly. His laugh was 
boisterous, but it covered a superstition lively and afraid. 

“ A truce to nonsense,” snapped Sir Jasper. “ Where is 
Lady Royd?” 

“ Asleep — and her toy spaniel, too.” The squire had come 
down and touched Sir Jasper to make sure that he was of 
this world. “ I should poison that dog if it were mine, Royd. 
It yapped at every wounded man we carried in.” 

“ My wife is asleep — and safe?” asked the other, as if he 
feared the answer. 

“ We’re all safe — except poor Will Underwood ; and all 
busy, thanks to that game pup of yours. For a scholar, he 
shaped well.” 

“ Rupert kept the house ? ” Through all his trouble and un- 
rest Sir Jasper tried to grasp the meaning of the charred 
doorway, the groans of wounded men above. “ It did not 
seem so when I came indoors.” 

So then the Squire told him, all in clipped, hurried speech, 
the way of it. And Sir Jasper forgot his wife, forgot his 
wound, and all the misery that had dogged his steps since 
Derby. He had an heir at last. Rupert, the well-beloved, 
had proved himself 

“ Where is he ? ” he asked huskily. 

“ Asleep, too, by your leave. No, we’ll not wake him. 
He’$ had three days of gunpowder and wakefulness, Royd. 
Let him sleep the clock round.” 

The squire, seeing how weak Sir Jasper was, took him by 
the arm into the dining-chamber, filled him a measure of 
brandy, and pushed him gently into a chair. 

“ I came late to the wedding, Royd,” he said dryly, “ but 
I’m in command here, till you find your strength.” 


THE RIDING OUT 


333 


Sir Jasper, for the first time since Derby, was content. 
His wife was safe, and his heir was a man at last. And the 
red-faced squire, whom he had always liked, was no recusant, 
after all. 

“ You talked of carrying wounded men in?” he asked by 
and by. “ I can hear them crying out for thirst.” 

“ That’s where they have us, Royd, these flea-bitten men 
of George’s,” said the squire, with another boisterous laugh. 
“ They were crying like stuck pigs — out in the cold — and we 
had to take them in. Windyhough is a hospital, I tell you, 
owing to the queer Catholic training that weakens us. 
They’d not have done as much for us.” 

“ That is their loss — and, as for training, I think Rupert 
has proved it fairly right.” 

“ Well, yes. But I hate wounds, Royd, and all the sick- 
room messiness. It’s an ill business, tending men you’d 
rather see lying snugly in their graves.” 

Sir Jasper laughed, not boisterously at all, but with the 
tranquil gaiety that comes of sadness. “ There was a worse 
business, friend, at Derby. I went through it; and, I tell 
you, nothing matters very much — nothing will ever matter 
again, unless the Prince finds his battle up in Scotland.” 

And by and by they fell to talking of ways and means. 
Sir Jasper was pledged to rejoin the Prince, and would not 
break his word. Neither would he leave his son at Windy- 
hough a second time, among the women and old men. And 
yet — there was his wife, who needed him. 

The red- faced squire, blunt and full of cheery common 
sense, resolved his difficulties. “ Cannot you trust us, Royd ? 
There’ll be six men of us — seven, counting Simon Foster, 
who is getting better of his hurt — and only wounded prisoners 
to guard.” 

“ What if another company of roving blackguards rides 
this way ? ” 

“Not likely. By your own showing, the hunt goes wide 
of this. Besides, we shall get a new doorway up. Rupert 


334 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

held the house with two to help him — seven of us could do 
the like.” 

Sir Jasper began to pace restlessly up and down. “ You 
forget,” he said sharply, “ it will be my wife you’re guarding 
— my wife — and she means so much to me, old friend.” 

“We know, we know. D’ye think we’d let hurt come to 
her? Listen, Royd. When these jackanapes who groan in 
German are fit to look after themselves, we’ll leave them to 
it, and take all your women with us to my house at Ravens- 
cliff. And word shall go round that Lady Royd — the toast 
of the county to this day — needs gentlemen about her. She’ll 
not lack friends, I tell you.” 

The squire’s glance fell as it met Sir Jasper’s. His con- 
science was uneasy still, and he fancied a rebuke that was 
far from Royd’s thoughts. So had the Prince been the 
county’s toast — until the Prince asked instant service. 

“ I can trust you,” said Sir Jasper, with sudden decision. 
“ Guard her — as God sees us, she is — is very dear to me.” 

Then, after a restless silence, Sir Jasper’s doubts, bred of 
bodily weakness, ran into a new channel. 

“ There’s yourself to think of in all this — your own wife, 
and your house. The Hanover men will not be gentle if we 
lose the battle up in Scotland.” 

“ Royd,” said the red-faced squire, not fearing now to meet 
his glance, “ we’ve come badly out of this, we fools who 
stayed at home. There’s been no flavour in our wine; we’ve 
been poor fox-hunters, not caring whether we were in at the 
death or no — you’ll not grudge us our one chance to play the 
man? ” 

Sir Jasper understood at last that recusants can have their 
evil moments, can find worse cheer than he had met at Derby. 

“ I warn you, Ned, there’s small chance of our winning 
now. For old friendship’s sake, I’ll not let you go blindly 
into this.” 

“ What’s the ballad Nance Demaine sings so nattily ? 
Life's losing and land's losing , and what were they to gi'e? 


THE RIDING OUT 


335 


Oh, it’s all true, Roycl. We have our chance at last — and, 
gad ! we mean to take it.” 

“ It bites deep, Ned,” said the other, with grave concern. 
“ It bites deep, this wife losing and land losing.” 

“ Not as deep as shame,” snapped the red-faced squire. 
“ I’m a free man of my hands again. And now, by the look 
of you, you’d best get to bed. Honest man to honest man, 
Royd, you’re dead-beat?” 

“ Yes — if the house is safe,” said Sir Jasper, with unalter- 
able simplicity. 

“ Oh, trust me, Royd ! I’m in command here — and, I tell 
you, all is safe.” 

He went upstairs, and into his wife’s room. There was a 
candle burning on the table at her elbow, and he forgot his 
own need of sleep in watching hers. The strain of the past 
days was gone. She lay like a child at peace with God and 
man, and the peevish, day-time wrinkles were smoothed away ; 
and she was dreaming, had her husband known it, of the 
days when she had come, as a bride, to Windyhough. 

A gusty tenderness, a reverence beyond belief, came to Sir 
Jasper. He forgot all hardships Derby way. The simple 
heart of him was content with the day’s journey, so long as it 
brought him this — his wife secure, with happiness asleep 
about her face. 

He stooped to touch her, and the spaniel sleeping at her 
side stood up and barked at him, rousing the mistress. 

“ Be quiet ! ” she said sleepily. “ I was dreaming — that 
my lord came home again, forgiving all my foolishness.” 

The spaniel only barked the more. And Sir Jasper, who 
was by way of being rough just now with all intruders, big 
or little, pitched him out on to the landing. 

His wife was awake now, and she looked at him with wide 
eyes of misery. “ You have kept tryst, my dear. You prom- 
ised — when you rode out — that, if you died, you would come 
to tell me of it. And I — God help me! — was dreaming that 
we were young again together.” 


336 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ We’re very young again together, Agnes,” said Sir Jas- 
per, with a quiet laugh. “ Do I look so ghostly that you all 
mistake me for a wraith ? ” 

She touched him, as the squire had done — gently at first, 
and then with gaining confidence. “ You look — as I have 
never seen you, husband; you are as grey of face as Rupert, 
when his work was done and they carried him upstairs. Your 
wound — Jasper, it is not mortal?” 

“ It is healing fast. There, wife, you are only half awake, 
and I’m dishevelled. I had no time to put myself in order. 
I was too eager just — just to see my wife again.” 

And Lady Royd was wide awake now. Not only the hus- 
band, but the lover, had returned. “ I shall have to take 
care of you, Jasper,” she said, with the woman’s need to be 
protective when she is happy. “ You’ll need nursing, 
and ” 

“ I need sleep,” growled Sir Jasper — “ just a few hours’ 
sleep, Agnes, and — and forgetfulness of Derby.” 

“ Ah, sleep ! That has been our need, too. We — we none 
of us went out with you, Jasper — but we kept the house. 
And we learned what sleep means — more than food or drink, 
more than any gift that we can ask.” 

It is in the hurried, perilous moments that men come to 
understanding. Sir Jasper, by the little said and the much 
left unsaid, knew that his wife, according to her strength, 
had taken a brave part in this enterprise. 

“ You talk of what old campaigners know,” he said. 

And there was a little, pleasant silence; and after that 
Lady Royd looked into her husband’s face. 

“ You are home again — to stay until your wound is 
healed ? ” she asked. 

“ No, my dear. I take the r^ad to-morrow. The Prince 
needs me.” 

She turned her face to the wall. And temptation played 
like a windy night about Sir Jasper, taking him at the ebb 
of his strength, as all cowards do. He was more weak of 


THE RIDING OUT 


337 


body than she guessed; he had given really of himself, and 
surely he had earned a little ease, a sitting by the hearth 
while he told his wife, this once again, what was in his heart 
for her. 

And his wife turned suddenly. Her eyes were radiant 
with the faith that siege had taught her — siege, and the reek 
of gunpowder, and the way men carried themselves in the 
face of the bright comrade, danger. 

“ Go, Jasper — and good luck to your riding,” she said 
quietly. 

At two of the next afternoon Sir Jasper and Rupert got 
to saddle; and the father, knowing the way of his son’s 
heart, rode on ahead down the long, sloping bridle-track, 
leaving him to say good-bye to Nance Demaine. 

Nance had been used to courage, as she was used to wind 
on the hills; but all her world was slipping from her now. 
She had given her kerchief to Will Underwood, from pity 
for a love that was dead and hidden out of sight; she had 
gone through stress and turmoil ; and at the end of all Rupert, 
her one friend here, was riding out with his eyes on the hills, 
though she stood at his stirrup and sought his glance. 

“ God speed, Rupert ! ” she said. 

He stooped to kiss her hand, but his thoughts were far 
away. “ It seemed all past praying for, Nance — and it has 
come.” 

“ What has come ? ” she asked — peevishly, because she 
was tired and very lonely. “ Fire, and sleeplessness, and the 
cries of wounded men — what else has come to Windyhough? ” 

“ Not Stuart songs,” he answered gravely. “ Stuart deeds 
are coming my way, Nance, at long last.” 

“ So you — are glad to go, Rupert ? ” 

He looked down at her and for a moment he forgot the 
road ahead. He saw only Nance — Nance, whom he had loved 
from boyhood — Nance, with the wholesome, bonnie face that 
discerning men, who could see the soul behind it, named beau- 
tiful. All his keen young love for her was needing outlet 


338 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


on the sudden. She was so near, so friendly; and about her 
was a clear, eager starshine, such as lovers see. 

The siege, and killing of a man here and there, stepped in 
and conquered this old weakness that was hindering him. 
“ Nance, my dear,” he said, “ shall come back — when I’m 
your proven man.” 

It was so he went quietly out into the sunlight that had 
struggled free awhile of the grey, wintry clouds. And again 
Nance was chilled, as she had been when the Loyal Meet rode 
out — years ago, it seemed — without sound of drum or any 
show of pageantry. She had not learned even yet that men 
with a single purpose go about their business quietly, not heed- 
ing bugle-calls of this world’s sounding. 

She watched him go, old pity and old liking stirred. And 
she longed to call him back, but pride forbade her. 

Simon Foster came grumbling through the charred court- 
yard gate. He had stood at the hilltop, watching the old 
master and the young go out along the track he was too in- 
firm to follow; and there was a deep, abiding bitterness in 
his heart. 

“ They shouldn’t have gi’en me a taste o’ fight, Miss 
Nance,” he said. “ I call it fair shameful just to whet a 
body’s appetite, and then give him naught solid to follow. 
Oh, I tell ye, it’s ill work staying at home, tied up wi’ rheu- 
matiz.” 

Nance was glad of the respite from her own muddled 
thoughts, from- the sense of loss that Rupert had left her as 
a parting gift. “ It is time you settled down,” she said, with 
a touch of the humour that was never far from her. “ And 
you have Martha to make up for all you’re losing.” 

“ Ay, true,” grumbled Simon, his eyes far away ; “ but 
Martha could have bided till I’d had my fill, like. She’s pa- 
tient — it’s in the build of her — but, I never was.” 

“Patience?” said Nance. “It is in no woman’s build, 
Simon. We have to learn it, while our men are enjoying the 
free weather.” 


THE RIDING OUT 


389 


Rupert had overtaken his father on the winding, downhill 
track, and they rode in silence together for a mile or so, each 
thinking of the other and of the work ahead. It was a 
pleasant, deep communion for them both; and the son re- 
membered, for the last time, how Sir Jasper had lied to him 
in giving him the house of Windyhough to keep. From the 
soldiery learnt there, from the peril waiting for them ahead, 
Rupert had won the priceless gift, forgiveness — a herb trouble- 
some and hard to find. 

“ You’re silent, lad,” said Sir Jasper, as they came to the 
stretch of level track that took them right-handed into the 
Langton road. 

“ I was thinking — that dreams come true, sir, as I said to 
Nance just now.” 

Clouds were hurrying up against the sun — yellow, evil 
clouds, packed thick with snow — and a bitter wind was ris- 
ing. The going underfoot was vile. Their errand was to 
join an army in retreat, with likelihood that they would dine 
and breakfast on disaster. And yet — because God made them 
so — they found tranquillity. Sir Jasper had dreamed of this, 
since his first gladness that he had an heir, his first sorrow 
when he admitted to himself, grudgingly, that the boy was not 
as strong as he had wished. And Rupert, while his shoulders 
found their scholarly droop in reading old books at Windy- 
hough, had shared the same dream — that one day, by a mir- 
acle, he might ride out with his father on the Stuart’s busi- 
ness. 

And they were here together. And nothing mattered, 
somehow, as the way of men is when their souls have taken 
the open, friendly road. 

They rode hard in pursuit of the Prince’s army, nursing 
their horses’ strength as far as eagerness would let them; 
and, at long last, they overtook their friends on the windy 
summit of Shap Fell, where the Stuart army was bivouacked 
for the night. 

Sir Jasper asked audience of the Prince, and found him 


340 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


sitting in his tent, eating a stew of sheep’s kidneys — the one 
luxury royalty could command at the moment. And the 
Prince rose, forgetting his quality, in frank welcome of this 
man who had shared the evil Derby days with him. 

“ I thought you dead, sir ; and I’m very glad to see you — 
alive, but thinner than you were.” 

No detail ever escaped the Prince’s eye, when he was 
concerned about the welfare of his friends; and the solici- 
tude, the affection of this greeting atoned for many hard- 
ships. 

“ I was wounded, your Highness, or should have been with 
you long since.” 

“ So much I knew. No other hindrance would have kept 
you,” said the Prince, with flattering trust. 

“ I bring a volunteer with me.” 

“He must be staunch indeed! A volunteer to join us in 
these days of havoc? Has he been jilted by one of your 
Lancashire witches, that he’s eager to trudge through this 
evil weather ? ” 

“ No. He has just won through a siege on your behalf — the 
siege of my own house — and could not rest till he had seen 
you.” 

The Prince had been in a black mood of despair not long 
ago. He was alone in his tent, with none to need him for 
the moment, none to know if he were sick at heart. Like 
all men, great or small, he was at once the victim and the cap- 
tain of the temperament given him at birth; and none but 
the Stuarts knew how dearly they purchased — through lonely 
hours of misery, self-doubt, denial of all hope — the charm, 
the gay, unyielding courage that touched the dullest wayfarers 
with some fine hint of betterment. 

Sir Jasper’s coming had cleared the Prince’s outlook. 
In the man’s simplicity, in the obvious love he held 
for this unknown volunteer, the Stuart read a request un- 
spoke. 

“ Present him,” he said, with the smile that had tempted 


THE RIDING OUT 


341 


men and women alike to follow him for love. “ He’ll for- 
give me if I finish this stew of kidneys? For I own I’m 
devilish hungry.” 

Through the toilsome ride from, Windyhough to Shap, 
Rupert had talked of the Prince, and only of the Prince; and 
Sir Jasper went now to find his heir, proud — as simple men 
are — of the transparent diplomacy that had secured Rupert 
his heart’s desire so promptly. He did not find him at once 
among the busy camp; and when they were admitted to the 
royal tent, his Highness had finished his meal, and was smok- 
ing the disreputable pipe that had been his friend through- 
out this weary, meaningless retreat. 

“ My son, your Highness,” said Sir Jasper. 

Rupert, coming out of the stark night outside, blinked as 
he met the flickering light of the rush-candles within the 
tent. Then his eyes cleared, and some trouble took him by 
the throat. He was young, and in the Presence; and his 
dreams had been greatly daring, sweeping up to the stars, of 
Stuart loyalty. 

“ I commend you, sir,” said the Prince, looking the lad 
through and through, as his way was, to learn what shape he 
had. “ There are apt to be volunteers when a cause is gain- 
ing, but few when it’s escaping to the hills.” 

The heart of a man, kept bridled for five-and-twenty years, 
knows no reticence when it meets at last the comrade of its 
long desire. 

“ Your Highness,” said Rupert, with a simplicity larger 
than his father’s, because less wayworn, “ I begin to live. I 
asked to serve you, and — and the prayer is granted.” 

“ You join us in retreat?” said the Prince, touched by the 
pity of this hero-worship. 

“ I join you either way. I’ve found— why, happiness, I 
think.” 

The Prince was a few months younger than himself; but 
he touched him now on the shoulder, as a father might. 
“ Good luck to your honour lad ! ” he said. “ Clean the 


3 42 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


world’s mud off from it whenever you find leisure, as you 
polish a sword-blade. That’s the soldier’s gospel.” 

The next day they were on the march again. The 
weather was not gentle on the top of Shap Fell, and the red 
sun, rising into a clear and frosty sky, showed them a lonely 
and a naked land — Hills reaching out to farther hills, desolate, 
snow-white, and dumb. Not a bird called. The Highland- 
ers, with their steady, swinging strides, the horsemen moving 
at a sober pace, were ringed about with silence. Before 
nightfall, however, they reached Clifton village, and here at 
last they found diversion from the day’s austerity. 

The Prince, with the greater part of his cavalry, had pushed 
forward to Penrith; but Lord Elcho, who, with Sir Jasper’s 
horsemen, had charge of the rear, gave a sharp sigh of 
thanksgiving when a messenger brought news that the Duke 
of Cumberland, with his own regiment and Kingston’s light 
horse, were close at his heels after ten hours’ hard pursuit. 
Elcho was glad even of the long odds against him, knowing 
that his Highlanders were wearying for battle, and made his 
dispositions with a cheery sense that the Duke had done them 
a good turn in overtaking them. 

Taking full advantage of the cover afforded by the coun- 
try, Elcho placed his men behind the hedges and stone walls, 
and as the first of the dusk came down the Duke’s soldiery 
delivered their attack. It was a sharp, bewildering skirmish, 
ended speedily by nightfall ; but to Rupert, fighting in the 
open after the stifled days at Windyhough, it was easy to show 
a gallantry that roused the applause of men grown old and 
hard to combat. And ever he thought less of Nance, and 
more of this new comrade, danger, whose face was bright, 
alluring. 

They left the Duke with his dead; and, because they were 
hopelessly outnumbered if the daylight found them still in 
possession of Clifton, they went through the black night to 
Penrith, bringing news to the Prince of their little victory. 
And after that it was forward to Carlisle. 


CHAPTER XIX 




THE FORLORN HOPE 

It can be bitter cold in Carlisle, when the wind raves down 
from the Border country and the rain will not be quiet; but 
never had the grey town shown more cheerless than it did to 
the Prince’s eyes when, six days before Christmas, he rode 
in with his retreating army. The brief, sudden warmth of 
the victory at Clifton was forgotten. They had travelled all 
night, over distressing roads, fetlock deep in mud. They 
were strained to breaking-point, after incessant marches, day 
after day seeing the footmen cover their twenty miles with 
bleeding feet. They were disillusioned, hopeless, sport for 
any man to laugh at whose faith went no farther than this 
world’s limits. 

For the Prince, when he got inside the Castle, and gave 
audience to Mr. Hamilton, the governor, there was worse 
trouble brewing. Hamilton, caring only for the Stuart’s 
safety, was resolute to hold Carlisle against the pursuing 
Hanoverians, encamped at Hesket, within an easy day’s 
march of the city. He pointed out, with a clear reasoning 
beyond dispute, that the Castle was strong to stand a siege, 
that the Duke of Cumberland would halt to capture it, know- 
ing it the key of the Border country, that a small garrison 
could censure the Stuart army a respite from, pursuit until they 
joined their friends in Scotland. 

“ I decline, Mr. Hamilton,” said the Prince sharply. “ You 
can hold out — for how long? ” 

“ For a week at least, your Highness — ten days, may be. 
They say the Duke has no artillery with him yet.” 

“ But the end — the end will be the same, soon or late.” 

“ A pleasant end, if it secures your safety. Oh, think, 

343 


344 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


your Highness! You’ve five thousand men with you, and we 
are less than a hundred, all told. I tell you, I have thought 
out all this. The garrison has thought it out, and — and we 
are bent on it.” 

“ My men would not buy safety at the price. How could 
they? No, no, Mr. Hamilton. Your garrison shall take 
their chance in the open with us.” 

Yet that night the Prince could only sleep by snatches. 
Throughout this swift campaign, opposed to all the prudences 
of warfare, his thought that had been constantly for the welfare 
of his soldiery, so far as he could compass it. And Hamil- 
ton had planned a gallant chance of safety for them. Un- 
doubtedly, the plan was good. 

To and fro his thoughts went, and they gained clearness as 
the night went on. For himself, he had no care either way. 
He had left hope behind at Derby, for his part. His heart 
was not broken yet, but it was breaking; and, if he had 
found leisure during this wakeful night for one private, 
selfish prayer, it would have been that he might die at dawn, 
facing the Duke’s motley army of pursuit. For the Prince 
was not himself only, fighting his battle against circumstance 
with a single hand; he was bone of the Stuart fathers who 
had gone before, and death had always seemed as good a 
friend as life, so long as it found him with straight shoulders 
and head up to the skies. 

There was the garrison here, resolved to die with gallan- 
try. There was his army, horsemen saddle-sore and footmen 
going with bleeding feet for Stuart love. And one or other 
must be sacrificed. It was no easy riddle for any man to 
solve — least of all for a Prince whose soul knew deeper sick- 
ness than usual men’s, whose body was racked by long riding 
through wet roads. He had an aching tooth, moreover, 
that moved him to get up at last, and light his black clay 
pipe, and pace up and down the room allotted to him in the 
castle. 

He was no figure to entice the ladies who had danced with 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


345 


him, some months ago, at Holyrood. It was the man’s busi- 
ness that claimed him now, and he fought out the battle of 
Stuart pity against the bigger, urgent need. 

At dawn he went down, and met the Governor coming up 
the stair. “ Your garrison can have their wish, Mr. Hamil- 
ton,” he said quietly. “ It seems the better of two evil 
ways.” 

“Can you spare twenty of your men, your Highness? 
Some few of us have fallen sick since you marched south, and 
we need strengthening.” 

And the Prince laughed, because pity and heart-sickness 
compelled it. “ I can spare anything just now,” he said, 
“ even to the half of my kingdom — the kingdom that Lord 
Murray hopes to win for me in Scotland.” 

“ There are better days coming — believe me ” 

“ To-day is enough for you and me, Mr. Hamilton. My 
faith, thank God, teaches me so much, in spite of a raging 
tooth.” 

He went out, and in the courtyard encountered a friend 
grown dear to him during a forward march and a retreat 
that had given men opportunities enough to prove each 
other. It was Colonel Towneley, whose name even before 
the Rising had stood for all that Catholic Lancashire had 
found likeable — Towneley, who had joined the southward 
march with the loyal company known as the Manchester Regi- 
ment; Towneley, who was resolute and ardent both, two 
qualities that do not always run together. “ Mr. Hamilton is 
insistent to hold the Castle,” said the Prince, with the sharp- 
ness that was always a sign of trouble on other folk’s behalf. 

“ Yes, your Highness. I learned yesterday that he’s of my 
own mind. If a hundred men can save five thousand, why, 
the issue’s plain.” 

“ He needs twenty volunteers to strengthen the garrison.” 

A sudden light came into Towneley’s face — a light not to 
be feigned, or lit by any random spark of daring that dates 
no farther back than yesterday. “ By your leave,” he said 


346 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

quietly, “ he needs nineteen only. I am privileged to be the 
first.” 

The Prince laid a hand on his shoulder. “ Towneley, I 
cannot spare you ! Let younger men step in. There’s 
Lochiel, and you, and Sir Jasper Royd, men I’ve grown to 
love — I cannot spare one of you.” 

Towneley met the other’s glance and smiled. “ I had a 
dream last night,” he said. 

“ But, friend, it is reality to-day.” 

“ Let me be, your Highness. Perhaps dreams and reality 
are nearer than we think. I dreamed that I knelt with my 
head on the block, and heard the axe whistle — and then — I 
woke in Paradise.” 

“ Towneley, you’re overstrained with all this devilish re- 
treat ” 

“ Your pardon, but I speak of what I know. I woke in 
Paradise, your Highness, and found leisure to think of my 
sins. It was a long thinking. But there was one comfort 
stayed by me — my Stuart loyalty. Look at it how I would, 
there had been no flaw in it. The dream ” — again the light- 
ening of the face — “ the dream contents me.” 

A little later they went out into Carlisle street. Wet and 
chilly as the dawn was, both soldiery and townsfolk were 
astir ; and the Prince and Towneley, who had talked together 
of things beyond this day’s needs, faced the buzz and clatter 
of the town with momentary dismay. 

The Prince was losing a friend, tried and dear; but he had 
lost more at Derby, and dogged hardihood returned to him. 
He looked at the way-worn men who faced him, eager to obey 
the Stuart whom they idolised, wherever he bade them go. 

We march north to-day, leaving the garrison here,” he 
said, a straight, kingly figure of surprising charm — charm 
paid for in advance and royally. “ There are twenty needed 
to volunteer — for certain death, my friends. I have no lies 
for you; and I tell you it is certain death.” 

(t Nineteen, your Highness,” corrected Towneley, 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


347 

“ Nineteen are needed. I forgot that Colonel Towne- 
ley ” 

He got no farther for a while. Wherever a man of Lan- 
cashire stood, in among the crowd, a great cheer went up. 
And Towneley, because he was human, was glad that these 
folk, who knew his record, loved him quite so well. 

What followed was all simple, human, soon over, as great 
happenings are apt to be. There was Carlisle street, with its 
gaping townsfolk, chattering foolishly and asking each other 
how these restless Highlanders would affect the profits of 
good shopkeepers; there was the Castle, set in a frame of 
murky rain, and, in front of it. Prince Charles Edward, ask- 
ing for nineteen volunteers to follow Colonel Towneley’s 
lead. 

Even the townsfolk ceased balancing their ledgers. They 
saw only one face in this crowded street — the Prince’s, as 
he stood divided between high purpose and sorrow for the toll 
of human sacrifice that is asked of all fine enterprises. They 
saw him as he was — no squire of dames, good at parlour 
tricks, no pretty fool for ballad-mongers, but a Christian 
gentleman, with sorrow in his eyes and a hard look of purpose 
round about his mouth and chin. 

“ Colonel Towneley,” the Prince was saying gravely, “ your 
gallantry has left me no choice in this. God knows how will- 
ingly I’d take your place.” And then, because a full heart 
returns to old simplicities, his voice broke and he stretched 
out a hand. “ Towneley,” he went on, in lowered tones, 
“ we’re in the thick of trouble, you and I, and yours is the 
easier death, I think. I covet it — and Towneley, journeys 
end you know the daft old proverb.” 

There was a moment’s pause. The rain dripped cease- 
lessly. The wind struck sharp and cruel from the east, as 
it can strike nowhere surely as in Carlisle and grey Edin- 
burgh. Yet no man heeded, for they knew that they had 
royalty among them here. And Colonel Towneley, for his 
part, began to sob — the tears coursing down his rugged, 


348 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


weather-beaten face, not because he had to die within a week 
or two, but because he was compelled to say goodbye to one 
who, in conduct and in faith, seemed nearer to the stars than 
he. 

“ Towneley ” — the Prince’s voice was raised again, for he 
cared not who knew; his old, deep-seated love of Lancashire — 
“ Towneley, I was taught as a lad to like your country. 
Your men are loyal — your women ask it of you — but I warn 
volunteers again that they go to certain death.” 

“ Just to another life, your Highness. I have no doubts; 
believe me, I have none. In one place or another — why, we 
shall see the Stuart crowned again. Sir, I thank God for 
this privilege; it goes far beyond my own deserts.” 

So then there was no more to be said. A great gentleman 
had spoken, content to take death’s hand as he would take a 
comrade’s; and when such speak, the lies and subterfuges 
of common life drift down the wind like thistledown. The 
townsfolk of Carlisle began to ask themselves if, after all, 
they had balanced up their ledgers rightly. These gentry, 
in the east wind and the rain, seemed to pass to and fro a 
coinage, not of metal but of the heart. And the coinage 
rang true. 

Again there was a silence. And then the Prince asked 
gravely who would volunteer for death. There was a noisy 
press of claimants for the honour; but first among them was 
Rupert, putting bulkier men aside as he forced his way for- 
ward to the Prince. 

“ I, your Highness,” he said quietly. “ I was bred in 
Lancashire, like Colonel Towneley, and I claim second 
place.” 

“And why?” asked two or three behind him jealously. 

Rupert turned, with a grave, disarming smile. Past weak- 
nesses, past dreams of heroism, the slow, long siege of Windy- 
hough, went by him as things remembered, but of little con- 
sequence. He felt master of himself, master of them all, 
and with a touch of pleasant irony he recalled past days. 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


349 

“ Because, gentlemen, I am God's fool, and I know not 
how to live, but I know how to die. That is the one trade 
I've learned.” 

There was no answer. There could be no answer. This 
man with the lean body and the purpose in his face was in- 
nocent of guile, and fearless, and strangely dominant. And 
then at last the Prince smiled — the fugitive, rare smile that 
few had captured since Derby and retreat. 

“ I believe you, sir,” he said. “ To know how to die — 
there is no better trade to learn.” 

Then Maurice pushed forward, eager for the forlorn hope, 
and moved, too, by the old, abiding instinct to stand by and 
protect his elder brother. And Sir Jasper, unswerving until 
now, was moved by sharp self-pity. He had been glad that 
Rupert should prove himself at heavy cost; glad that he him- 
self could surrender the dearest thing he had to the Prince’s 
need; but all his fatherhood came round him, like a mist of 
sorrow. 

“ One son is enough to give your Highness,” he said, with 
direct and passionate appeal to the Prince. “ Pm not to old 
to help garrison Carlisle, and my wife will need a young arm 
to protect her later on ; let me take Maurice’s place.” 

It was then the Prince found his full stature. In retreat, 
in sickness of heart, under temptation to deny his faith in 
God and man, the Stuart weighed Sir Jasper’s needs, found 
heart to understand his mood, and smiled gravely. “ There 
are so many claimants, sir, that I shall not permit more than 
one man from any house to share the privilege. As for 
Maurice, I shall have need of him at my side — and of you — 
I cannot spare you.” 

The tradesmen of Carlisle looked on and wondered. This 
was no shopkeeping. From the sleet and the tempest that 
had bred them, it was plain that these gentry had learned 
knighthood. Jack Bownas, the bow-legged tailor, who had 
held stoutly that kings and gentry were much like other men, 
save for the shape of their breeks, was bewildered by this 


350 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


scene in Carlisle’s ugly street. He was aware that men are 
not equals, after all, that some few — gently or lowly born — 
are framed to claim leadership by steadfastness of soul and 
outlook. “ I’d like to tailor for yond Prince,” he growled to 
his neighbour. 

“ So you’ve turned Charlie’s man ? ” the other answered, 
dour and hard — a man who had yielded to north-country 
weather, instead of conquering it. “ For me, he’s a plain- 
looking chiel enough, as wet and muddied-o’er as you and 
me, Jack.” 

“ He’s a man, or somewhere near thereby, and I build few 
suits these days for men. I spend my days in cutting cloth 
for lile, thin-bodied folk like ye.” 

“ I’m a good customer o’ yours, and there are more tailors 
in Carlisle than one.” 

Jack Bownas, prudent by habit, was loath to lose custom. 
He pondered the matter for a moment. “ Awa wi’ ye,” he 
said at last. “ I’ve seen the Prince. You may gang ower 
to Willie Saunderson’s, if you wull. He makes breeks for 
little-bodied men.” 

It was the tailor’s one and only gift to the Stuart, this sur- 
render of a customer; but, measured by his limitations, it 
was a handsome and a selfless tribute to the Cause. Born to 
another calling, he might, with no greater sacrifice, have set 
his head upon the block. 

And through all this to-and-froing of the townsfolk, 
through the rain and the bitter wind and the evil luck, the 
forlorn hope — twenty of them — halted at the gateway of the 
Castle before going in. 

Rupert turned round to grip his father’s hand. “ Good- 
bye, sir,” he said gravely. 

“ Goodbye, my lad.” 

And that was all their farewell. No more was needed, for 
all the rough-and-ready training of their lives at Windy- 
hough had been a preparation for some such gallant death 
as this. 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


35 1 


Colonel Towneley marshalled his volunteers in front of the 
gateway, and the bitter wind drove through them. 

The Prince, with his shoulders square to the wind, took 
the salute of men soon to die. And then he drooped a little, 
as all his race did when they were thinking of the needs of 
lesser men. “ Friends,” he said, lifting his head buoyantly 
again, “ there’s no death — and by and by I shall be privileged 
to meet you.” 

Throughout this march to Derby, and back again to wet 
Carlisle, there had been no pageantry to tempt men’s fancy. 
There were none now. A score of soldiers, drenched to the 
skin, went in at the Castle gateway, and the rain came down 
in grey, relentless sheets. Prince Charles Edward, as he 
moved slowly north at the head of his five thousand men, was 
still fighting the raging toothache that the hardships of the 
march had brought him. And toothache sounds a wild, dis- 
heartening pibroch of its own. 

The night passed quietly in Carlisle, and the garrison was 
grave and businesslike, as men are when they stand in face 
of certain death and begin to reckon up theij* debts to God. 

Colonel Towneley had persuaded Hamilton to get to bed 
and take his fill of sleep, and had assumed command; and 
about three of the morning, as he went his round, he came on 
Rupert, standing at his post. Towneley had the soldier’s 
eye for detail, and he glanced shrewdly at the younger man. 

“ You were the first to volunteer with me?” he asked, tap- 
ping him lightly on the shoulder. “ I remember your tired, 
hard-bitten face.” 

“ It was my luck, sir — and I’ve had little until now.” 

“ You should not be sentrying here. We’ve had no easy 
march to-day. You had earned a night’s rest.” 

“ I did not need it. I asked to take my place here.” 

Towneley looked him up and down, then tapped him lightly 
on the shoulder. “ By gad ! you’ve suffered, one time or an- 
other,” he said unexpectedly. “ You’re young to have earned 
that steady voice. Good-night, my lad.” 


352 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


The next day was quiet in Carlisle, and the only news that 
came into the Castle was that the Duke of Cumberland still 
lay at Hesket, awaiting the implements of siege that were 
slow in reaching him; but the day after he brought his men 
into the city, and invested the town as closely as his lack of 
artillery allowed. It was a mistaken move on his part, as 
the shrewdest of his advisers pointed out to him ; but the 
Duke had answered all wiser counsels with the blunt assur- 
ance that he had time to stay and butcher a few rebels here 
in Carlisle by way of whetting his appetite for the pleasant 
shambles to come afterwards in Scotland. And those few 
who were, English among his following were aghast at the li- 
cence Cumberland allowed himself in speaking of enemies, 
misguided to their view, but brave and honourable men, con- 
tent to face long odds. 

And again there was quiet within the Castle. Two days 
passed, and still the Duke was waiting for the artillery that 
was forcing its way painfully through roads ankle-deep in 
mud. 

Rupert, for his part, was entirely at home with the work 
asked of him. He was defending walls besieged, and nothing 
in the world was happening, as at Windyhough ; but his task 
was easier here, because he had men to share the hardship 
with him, because he did not need, day by day, to fight single- 
handed against the sleep that had kept him company in Lan- 
cashire. 

Hamilton, the Governor, and Colonel Towneley — seasoned 
men both — were astonished by the toughness and knowledge 
of defence shown by this lean-bodied lad whose energy seemed 
tireless. And then they learned from one of the Lanca- 
shire volunteers how he had kept Windyhough for the King, 
and they told each other that it was hard on the lad to have 
to face a second siege so soon. 

“ There's one who should ride far,” said Towneley to the 
Governor once, after Rupert had got up from dining with 
them to take his post. 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


353 


“ Yes,” said Hamilton, with tired mockery of the faith he 
held — “ as far as the stars, Towneley — on a winged horse — 
like the Prince, God bless him ! like Oliphant of Muirhouse — 
like all the dreamers who think this world well lost for loy- 
alty.” 

“ Well, we’re fools of the same breed,” put in the other 
dryly. “ No need to laugh at your own regiment.” 

“Oh, I don’t laugh! I’m tired — just tired, Towneley. I 
tell you, this business of holding Carlisle, while you others 
were facing the stark brunt of it, has made me peevish. I 
shall be an old woman if Cumberland’s artillery does not 
reach him soon.” 

Towneley filled his glass afresh, held it up to the light, 
glanced across at the Governor with clear, unhurried comrade- 
ship. “ I know, Hamilton — I know. I’ve felt the same — since 
Derby. The Prince has felt it. The Highlanders have felt 
it.” 

“ You were in the open,” growled Hamilton. 

“ In retreat, and asking battle all the while — battle that did 
not come. And we were saddle-sore and wet, with an east 
wind blowing through us. You were snug in Carlisle here, 
Hamilton. I tell you so.” 

And they came near to quarrel, as men do when their hearts 
grow cramped from lack of action. And then Towneley 
laughed, remembering his whole, round faith in this life and 
the next. 

“ We’re grown men,” he said, “ and very near to death. 
We’d best not quarrel, like children in the nursery.” 

The next day the garrison looked out on a gentle fall of 
sleet that half hid the Duke’s investing army. It was the 
day of Christmas, and those without might do as they 
liked; but the Governor and Colonel Towneley were aware 
that catholic souls must keep the feast of great thanks- 
giving. 

They made their rounds with no less zeal, but with greater 
precision, maybe, knowing that the sword-hilt is fashioned like 


354 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


the Cross. And about seven of the evening they sat down — 
Rupert with them, and all the gentry of the garrison who 
could be spared — at the well-spread supper-board. 

They were simple at heart, these revellers who had known 
more fast than feast days lately. They had gone to Mass 
that morning with thoughts of the Madonna, who had 
changed the world’s face, giving men a leal and happy rever- 
ence for their women-folk. They had remembered these 
women- folk with a pang of tenderness and longing knowing 
they would not see another Christmas dawn. But now they 
sat down to supper with appetites entirely of this world and 
a resolve to wear gay hearts on their sleeves. 

It was an hour later that Hamilton, the Governor, rose 
and passed his wine across a great jug of water that stood in 
front of him. “ To the King, gentlemen ! ” he said. 

And, from the acclamation, it would have seemed they 
toasted one who was firmly on the throne, with gifts to offer 
loyalty. Instead, their King was an exile on French shores, 
and the only gift he had for them was this grace they had 
found to die selfishly and with serenity for the Stuart whom 
they served. 

For a doomed garrison, they had supped well; and when 
Towneley got to his feet by and by and sang a Lancashire 
hunting-song, all in the broad, racy tongue of the good county, 
they called for another, and yet another. Discipline — of a 
drastic sort — was waiting for them. Meanwhile, they were 
resolved to take their ease. 

And suddenly there was a knocking on the door, and then 
a rattling of the latch, and the sound of stumbling feet out- 
side. And then the door opened, and into the middle of the 
uproar and the laughter came a figure so ludicrous, so dis- 
hevelled, that their merriment was roused afresh. 

The man was dripping from head to foot — not with clean 
rain, but with muddy water that streaked his face, his hands, 
his clothes. And he stumbled foolishly as he moved to the 
table, and, without a by-your-leave, poured himself a measure 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


355 


of wine and gulped it down. Then he tried to straighten 
himself, and looked round at the company. 

“ I carry dispatches, and — and I’m nearly done,” he said. 

There was no laughter now, for his weakness and his er- 
rand dwarfed all comedy. It was Rupert, remembering long 
years of hero-worship, who first saw through the dishevelment 
and mud that disguised this comer to the feast. He crossed 
to the messenger’s side, and poured out another measure for 
him. 

“ You’re Oliphant of Muirhouse,” he said, “ and — you 
steadied me in the old days at Windyhough.” 

Oliphant had the gift of remembering the few who were 
conspicuously leal, instead of the many whose weakness did 
not count in the strong game of life. “ So you’ve found 
your way, as I promised you ? ” he said, with a sudden smile. 
“ And it tastes sweet, Rupert ? Gad ! I remember my first 
taste of the Road.” 

And then Oliphant, feeling his strength ebb, crossed to the 
Governor and laid his dispatches on the table. He explained, 
in the briefest way, that he had ridden across country from 
Northumberland, changing horses by the way, had found Car- 
lisle invested, had been compelled, lacking the password, to 
run a sentry through and afterwards to swim the moat. 

With the singular clearness that, in sickness or in health, 
goes with men who carry a single purpose, he gave one dis- 
patch into the Governor’s hand. “ That is for you, sir. This 
other must be carried forward to the Prince — must be car- 
ried instantly. Its contents may alter the movements of the 
whole army. The safety of his Highness is concerned.” 

He paused a moment, daunted by a weakness extreme and 
pitiful. “ I had hoped to carry the message on myself, after 
an hour’s sleep or two,” he went on ; “ but I’m as you see 
me — there are times when a man can do no more.” 

The Governor was moved by Oliphant’s childlike, unques- 
tioning devotion. The man stood there, drenched and mud- 
died, after a ride that would have broken most folk’s wish to 


356 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


carry any message on. He had passed through besieging 
troops, and cooled his ardour in a moat whose waters were 
nipped by a north-east wind. And yet he seemed to ask for- 
bearance, because he was not strong enough to ride out again 
at dawn on the Stuart’s business. 

“ Be easy, Mr. Oliphant,” said Hamilton. “ I shall find 
you a hard-riding messenger.” 

Oliphant’s mind was clear as ever for the detail that every 
man must watch whose heart is set on high adventure. He 
looked round the board, and the face that claimed his glance 
was Rupert’s. Sharp and clear, old scenes at Windyhough 
recurred to him — the pretty, pampered mother, the weakling 
heir who longed to prove himself, the memories of his own 
unhappy boyhood that Rupert had stirred at every meeting. 

“ By your leave, Mr. Hamilton,” he said, “I shall choose 
my own messenger.” 

The Governor nodded gravely. “ It is your due, sir — much 
more than that is your due, if I could give it you.” 

“ Sir Jasper Royd is my friend — and he will be glad to 
know that his son is trusted with dispatches.” 

Rupert took fire from the torch that this harassed messen- 
ger had carried into Carlisle Castle. Not long ago he had 
been a stay-at-home, fenced round with women and old men; 
and now, by some miracle, he was chosen to ride hard through 
open country. 

Across his eagerness, across the free and windy gladness 
that had come to him, there struck a chillier air; and he 
stayed for a thought of comrades left in the rearguard of 
the action. It was the old, abiding instinct that ran with the 
simple Stuart loyalty. 

“ Mr. Oliphant,” he said quietly, “ we are waiting here for 
certain death. I choose to stay.” 

“You choose to stay?” echoed Oliphant. 

“ Because I volunteered — because you must take these dis- 
patches north yourself. I tell you, sir., you must get free of 
Carlisle. It is death to stay.” 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


357 


Oliphant’s failing strength rallied for a moment. He no 
longer saw the strained, eager face of this youngster who 
had given him hero-worship, who was pleading with him for 
his own safety. Instead, he saw a mountain-burn, high up 
on the braes of Glenmoriston, and a summer’s day lang syne 
gone by, and one who walked with him. They had talked 
together, he and she, and she had been kind and winsome, 
but no more; and with that dream, high as the stars, yet 
vastly human, had ended his foolish quest for happiness. 

He saw her now with the young eyes that had sought 
answering fire from hers and had not found response. He 
saw the whaups wheeling and crying over their heads, heard 
the tinkling hurry of the burn, the lilt of the breeze through 
the heather. 

“ Death ? ” he said turning at last to Rupert. “ My lad, 
there are worse friends.” 

When they came to see him, after he had fallen into a 
chair, his arms thrown forward on the table, they found a 
gash across his ribs, of which he had not spoken. He had 
earned it during the encounter with the sentry, before he 
swam the moat. 

“ Hard-bitten ! ” muttered the Governor, with frank 
pleasure in the man. “ Hard-bitten ! The Prince is happy 
in his servants.” 

After they had carried the messenger to bed, the Governor 
drew Rupert apart. “ See here, boy,” he said sharply, “ your 
sense of honour is devilish nice, but it needs roughening just 
now. You volunteered for death? Well, the order is counter- 
manded — or, maybe, death’s waiting for you close outside. 
Anyway, you go out to-night^-at once.” 

“ I would rather see my duty that way, sir, if I could.” 

“ Oh, to the deuce with your scruples! You’re young, and 
think it a fine, happy business to die for the Prince. It’s 
a braver thing to live for him — through the stark murk of it, 
lad. Here are your dispatches.” 

The Governor, at the heart of him, was glad to feel that 


358 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


this promising youngster, who had shown patience and gal- 
lantry in siege, should have his chance of a run for liberty. 
He hurried him out of the Castle and down to the edge of 
the moat. The night was thick with sleet and wind, friendly 
for the enterprise because it stifled sound. 

“You can swim?” said the Governor. 

“ Passably, sir.” 

“ Then slip in, and play about like a water-rat until you find 
your chance to land between the sentries. Make your way 
into the town and hire a horse at the first tavern. They do 
not know you in Carlisle.” 

“ And you, Mr. Hamilton ? ” asked Rupert, with the old 
simplicity. 

“ I ? I shall take care of my own troubles, lad. Mean- 
while, you’ve enough of your own to keep you busy.” 

The passage of the moat was cold enough to keep Rupert 
intent on present business. The need afterwards to pick his 
way between the sentries, who were cursing northern 
weather, left him no time for thought of those he left behind 
in Carlisle. And then he had to keep a steady head, a quiet, 
impassive face, as he bargained with the host of the Three 
Angels Tavern touching the hire of a horse to carry him on 
an errand of gallantry to Gretna Green. He played his part 
well, this heir of Sir Jasper’s, for the song of the open hazard 
was lilting at his ears. 

He left the town behind him, and got out into the desolate, 
wild country that lay between Carlisle and the Border. Be- 
cause he had no thought whether his horsemanship were good 
or bad, so long as it helped him along the track of a single 
purpose, he rode easily and well. After the quiet of Windy- 
hough, after the surprising journey to Carlisle, the second 
siege there, with nothing happening, there was a keen, un- 
heeding freedom about this northward ride. He knew the 
Prince’s route, had only to spur forward on the Annan road 
to overtake him, soon or late. He was wet to the skin, and 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


359 


not strong of body; but his soul, like a steady, hidden lamp, 
warmed all this enterprise for him. His one trouble was that 
his borrowed nag was carrying a clinking shoe. 

As he crossed the bridge at Gretna he heard two horses 
splashing through the sleety track in front, and wondered 
idly who were keeping him company on such an ill-found, 
lonely road. When he got to the forge, intent on having his 
horse re-shod, he saw the rough figure of the smith standing 
swart against the glow from the open smithy door, fronting 
a man good to look at and a woman whose face was shrouded 
by a blue-grey hood. 

“ It’s lucky I was late with my work, and hammering half 
into the night,” the smith was saying. “ The fees are double, 
sir, after it strikes midnight,” he added, with true Scots cau- 
tion. 

“ Treble, if it pleases you. Marry us, blacksmith, and 
don’t haggle. We’ve no time to waste.” 

When they turned, man and wife, to get to saddle again, 
they saw Rupert waiting, his arm slipped through his horse’s 
bridle. 

“ Good luck to you both ! ” he said, with the easiness that 
sat well on him these days. “ My need is to have a loose 
shoe set right — and I, too, have no time to waste.” 

The bride lifted her blue-grey hood and glanced at him, 
aware of some romance deeper than her own that sounded 
in the voice of this slim, weather-beaten stranger. “ Dear, 
will you ask a favour of this gentleman ? ” she said, touching 
her bridegroom’s arm. “ He wishes us luck, and he has a 
loose horseshoe to give us. He comes in a good hour, I 
think.” 

Rupert stooped. The shoe came easily away into his hand, 
and the bride, as she took it from him, looked up at him as if 
she had known him long and found him trusty. “ You carry 
the luck-giver’s air,” she said. “ I have seen it once or twice, 
and — it cannot be mistaken.” 


360 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Likely,” said Rupert, with a touch of the old bitterness. 
“ I have found little of my own — till lately.” 

“ Well, as for luck,” put in the blacksmith dryly, “ I fancy 
you’ve all three got more than the poor fools who came this 
way five days ago. Five thousand o’ them, so it was said — 
five thousand faces that looked as if they were watching their 
own burial — and the pipes just sobbing like bairns left out i’ 
the cold, and the Pretender with his bonnie face set as grim 
as a Lochaber blade ” 

“ The Prince — have you later news of him ? ” asked Ru- 
pert indifferently, as if he talked of the weather. 

“ Whisht, now! We have to call him the Pretender, what- 
ever a body may think privately. Yes, I’ve news of him — 
news comes north and south to Gretna, for it’s a busy road. 
They tell me he’s in Glasgow, and minded to bide there for 
a good while.” 

The bridegroom laughed — the low, possessive laugh of 
pride that is the gift of newly-wedded males. “ Princes come 
and go, but a good wife comes only once. Good-night to you, 
for we’re pursued.” 

The bride gave Rupert a long, friendly look as she turned 
to get to saddle. “ I thank you for your luck, sir,” she said. 

It was so they parted, not to meet again; but Rupert, as 
he waited restlessly until his horse was shod, was aware that 
this lady of the grey-blue hood had loosened his grim hold of 
life a little, because some note in her voice, some turn of the 
pretty head, had reminded him of Nance Demaine — Nance, 
half-forgotten, pushed into the background of this ride peril- 
ous that was to give him manhood at long last. And a sud- 
den, foolish longing came to him to be at Windyhough again, 
seeing Nance come into a dull room, to make it, by some 
magic of her own, a place full of charm and melody. 

“ They say the Duke of Cumberland is staying to take 
Carlisle, sir,” said the blacksmith, putting the finishing touches 
to his work. 

“ Yes. So they told me when I rode through to-day.” 


THE FORLORN HOPE 


361 


“ Well, it gives these other chiels a chance, and I’m no 
saying I’m sorry.” 

“ Nor I,” said Rupert as he got to saddle, and pressed a 
crown-piece into the blacksmith’s hand. 

As he rode forward through the sleet, and was half-way to 
Annan in the Border country, a horseman, better mounted 
than himself, overtook him and drew rein sharply. There 
was a ragged sort of moonlight stealing through the dark- 
ness of the night, and he saw the face of a man, elderly and 
hard and in evil temper, peering at him through the gloom. 

“ I’m seeking my daughter, sir,” said the stranger, without 
preamble of any kind. “ She was married at Gretna just now 
— I was too late to stop that — but I trust to make her a 
widow before the night is out. Have they passed you on the 
road ? ” 

“ Was she wearing a grey-blue hood, sir? ” 

“ How should I know ? Have they passed you, I say ? ” 

“ No, but I watched them married at Gretna not long ago, 
and they rode out ahead of me.” 

“ On which road ? ” 

“ They spoke ” — even a white lie came unreadily to Ru- 
pert’s tongue — “ they spoke of turning righthanded towards 
Newcastle, I think.” 

So then the stranger turned his horse sharply round, swore 
roundly at his informant, and was gone without a good-night 
or a word of thanks. And Rupert laughed as he trotted for- 
ward. He had faced many things during his odd, disastrous 
five-and-twenty years — loneliness hard to bear, good-hu- 
moured liking that was half-contempt from the men who 
counted him a scholar, distrust and loathing of himself. But 
now he felt strength come into his right hand, as a sword- 
hilt does. His feet were set on the free, windy road. He 
had gone a little way to prove himself, and the zest of it was 
like rare wine, that warms the fancy but leaves both head 
and heart in a nice poise of sanity. 

He thought of the lady in the grey-blue hood, and laughed 


362 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


again. He knew now why he had lied to the pursuer. They 
were night-riders, like himself, she and her groom ; they had 
chosen the honest open, with peril riding hard behind them. 
And, till he died, his sympathy would ever go out now to 
those who took the dangerous tracks. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE GLORY OF IT 

The Prince stayed in Glasgow with his army until the New 
Year was two days in. And this was fortunate for Rupert, 
because it enabled him to bring in his dispatches — after many 
a change of horses by the way — in time to share the pleasant 
victory of Falkirk later on. 

And Falkirk Battle, like Prestonpans at the beginning of 
this wild campaign, showed the Prince quick in strategy be- 
forehand, hot when the fight was dinning round his ears. 
By sheer speed of generalship he got his army to the rising 
ground which gave him the advantage, outwitting General 
Hawley, who led the Hanoverian army. And then news was 
brought — by Rupert, as it chanced — that Hawley could not 
get his cannon up within firing distance, because the bogland 
was so sodden that the wheels were axle-deep in mire. And 
so then the Prince, against Lord Murray’s text-book warnings 
and advice, ordered a sharp attack. They had the advantage 
of the hill ; but the Prince, knowing the temper of his High- 
landers, chose to abandon that for the gain of instant action. 
He was justified. His men were like dogs kept too long upon 
the chain, savage for assault; and, when he led them down 
the hill, straight on to the astonished enemy — busy still with 
the foundered gun-carriages — the roar and speed of the at- 
tack swept all before it. 

The fight was quick and bloody, till gloaming ended it. 
The odds were three to two against the Prince ; yet when the 
day’s business was accomplished, there were six hundred 
killed of Hawley’s army, and many wounded asking for the 
succour which the Stuart gave by habit, and much artillery 
and ammunition captured. 


363 


364 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


It was not a battle, but a rout. The Prince had had his 
way for once, had faced the opposing odds with the practi- 
cal, quiet courage, the eager hope, that are seldom blended to 
a nicety in a man’s soul. 

And while they rested after the battle, news came in that 
General Hawley’s army had been increased by three thou- 
sand troops sent by forced marches from Northumberland. 
Lord Murray’s arithmetic again took panic; the Prince’s 
zeal caught fire; and once more, in this bloodless battle of 
the council-chamber, it was the Scots prudence that won the 
day. 

The Prince’s army moved north, in retreat when advance 
was their master-card to play. And again the Highland 
pipers played sorrow round the hills, as if a mist came down. 
And Rupert found his strength come supple to him, like a 
well-tried sword, because in the years behind he, too, had 
known retreat. 

They went north, and farther north, up into the beauti- 
ful, wild glens that now were harsh with winter, though 
the hill-bred men liked the naked pastures, the naked, comely 
trees, a little better than when the warmth of summer clothed 
them. 

It was in these days that Rupert found recompense for the 
years behind. Whenever a hazardous journey was planned, 
needing one resolute man to follow it alone, the choice fell 
on him. He had joined the honourable company of Night- 
Riders — those messengers who were seldom in the forefront 
of public applause, but whose service to the Cause was beyond 
all praise or recompense. There were some twenty of them, 
scattered up and down the two countries. Oliphant of Muir- 
house, Rupert — each one of them was of the same build and 
habit — lean, untiring men who had earned their optimism by 
the discipline the slow-working mills of God had taught them 
— men who feared sloth, self-pity, prudence; men with their 
eyes ever on the hills, where strength and the royal courage 
thrive. 


THE GLORY OF IT 


S65 


Rupert had waited for his manhood; and now it grew to 
flower with amazing speed and certainty. The muddled years 
behind, the scholarly aloofness from life’s warfare and its 
seeming disillusions, grew faint and shadowy. He went 
about the Prince’s business, a man carrying men’s lives, and 
the joy of it was as if the pipes called him up and down the 
broken country to swift and pleasant battle. 

He learned much these days, as men do who ride with the 
lone hand on the bridle-rein — learned to keep his body hard, 
and his soul clean, because he was adventuring, not his own 
safety, but that of comrades who trusted him. Trust? As 
he rode through the lonely glens, seeing past days and fu- 
ture spread out before him like a clear-drawn map, he grew 
more and more aware that there is no stronger stirrup-cup for 
a rider-out to drink than the waters of deep trust. A man’s 
faith in himself grows weak, or arrogant, or hardened; but 
the high trust given him by others, who look to him and can- 
not see him fail, is like a fixed star shining far ahead. 

It was no easy life, as ease is counted. The year was get- 
ting on to spring, as they reckon seasons London way; but 
here among the mountains winter was tarrying, a guest who 
knew his welcome long outstayed, and whose spite was 
kindled. Night by night, as Rupert went by the lonely 
tracks, the wind blew keen and bitter from the east; and 
snow fell often; and rheumatism, sharp and unromantic, was 
racking his wet body. Yet still his knees were firm about 
the saddle, his handling of the reins secure ; for he was learn- 
ing horsemanship these days. 

And sometimes, at unlikeliest moments, there came a brief, 
bewildering summer to his soul. He knew that Nance was 
thinking of him — was trusting him, as all these others did. 
He would see the moors and the denes that had bred him — 
, would hear the pleasant folk-speech of Lancashire, as he 
passed greeting with farmers on the road — would remember 
the way of his heart, as it leaped out to Nance in the old, 
unproven days. These were his intervals of rest; for God 


366 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


lets no man’s zeal consume him altogether, until his time is 
ripe to go. And then he would put dreams from him, as if 
they were a crime, and would touch his pocket to learn if the 
dispatches were secure, and would ride forward, carrying his 
life through the winding passes, through the Scottish caution 
of lairds who were doubtful whether it were worth while to 
join a Prince in hot retreat. 

It was so he came to Culloden Moor — wet, rheumatic, and 
untiring — on the Fifteenth of April, and had audience of the 
Prince. He had come from the north side of the River Spey, 
and was ignorant that the enemy, under the Duke of Cumber- 
land’s command, was encamped not far away, ready to give 
battle on the morrow. 

The Prince acknowledged Rupert’s coming with a quick, 
friendly smile. “ Ah, you, sir ! You’re the pick of my gen- 
tlemen since Oliphant of Muirhouse died.” 

And Rupert, forgetting that he had ridden far, carrying 
urgent news, was aghast that one who had fed his boyish 
dreams — one who had brightened the hard face of endeavour 
for him — should have gone out of reach of human touch and 
speech. “ He’s dead, your Highness ? I — I loved him,” he 
said brokenly. 

“ Then be glad,” said the Prince, as if he talked gently to 
a younger brother. “ He died in Carlisle Castle, after a cruel 
ride on my behalf. But he was not taken, sir, as all the others 
were. There was Colonel Towneley there — a comrade I had 
proved — and they tell me he’s on his way south to Tower Hill. 
I would rather die as Oliphant — God rest him ! — died.” 

Rupert, blind and heart-sick, fumbled for his dispatches — 
dispatches that, twice to-day, had all but cost him his life — 
and handed them to the Prince, who turned them over care- 
lessly and put them down. 

“ By your leave,’ said the Prince, with a quiet laugh, “ these 
can wait a little. There’s battle on the moor to-morrow.” 

Then Rupert learned what was in the doing; and his first 
grief for Oliphant grew dulled, because the chance of open 


THE GLORY OF IT 


367 

fight had come, after incessant riding through the nights that 
had brought him little company. 

“ There, you’ll need rest ! ” said the Prince, with a kindly 
touch on his arm. 

And again Rupert smiled, with disarming frankness. “ I’ve 
had five-and-twenty years of rest, your Highness. It is bet- 
ter to be up Culloden braes to-morrow.” 

“Gad, sir! you’re Oliphant — just Oliphant, come to life 
again, with all his obstinate, queer zeal. Make your peace, 
lad, and sleep a while — we come into our kingdom either way 
to-morrow.” 

Through that night, in between the slumber that was forced 
on him by sheer weight of tiredness, Rupert held fast the last 
words of the Prince. It was their strength — the Stuart’s 
strength and his, that, either way, they came into their king- 
dom. The Georgian troops, sleeping or waking till the dawn’s 
bugle notes rang out, had only one way of victory ; they must 
conquer, or lose all, in this world’s battle ; it was a sealed rid- 
dle to them that a man may find true gain in loss. 

The dawn came red and lonely over Culloden Moor, and the 
austere hills, as they cleared their eyes of mist-grey sleep, 
looked down on a fury in the making, on preparations for a 
battle whose tragedy is sobbing to this day. 

Rupert, his heart on fire as he 7 went through that day’s 
eagerness — the Prince, who found recompense in action for 
the indignities of Derby — the Highlanders, who were fighting 
with the zest of children dancing round a village Maypole — 
could never afterwards reconstruct the sharp and shifting is- 
sues of the battle, could not guess how it came that all their 
gallantry, their simple hope, were broken by the stolid foreign 
soldiery. 

Even at the bridge, where they came on with shield and 
dirk and claymore against the Duke’s three lines of musketry 
— the first line kneeling, the second stooping, the third stand- 
ing to full height — when they lay in tangled, writhing heaps, 
shot down at twenty paces, those of the Highlanders whose 


368 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


eyes were clear above disasters of the body were surprised 
that love of their Prince had not disarmed the musketry ; and 
they tried to get up again, and died in the simple faith that had 
taught them now to fight and how to die. 

The Prince galloped up to the company of MacDonalds, 
who had stood sullenly aloof because, at the beginning of the 
fight, they had not been given the first post of danger. 

“ MacDonalds ! ” he said. “ Who comes with me to the 
bridge ? ” 

They forgot their sulkiness, forgot allegiance to their chief- 
tain. There was the Stuart here, his face crimsoned by a 
glancing musket-shot, his voice alive and dominant. From 
frank disaster, from toothache and the miry roads, from this 
day’s battle, which had found him skilled in fight, he had 
learned his kingship. 

The MacDonald turned sharply round, putting himself be- 
tween his clansmen and the Prince. “ We stay,” he said, with 
peremptory and harsh command. “ They would not give us 
the right wing of the battle — we’ll take no other.” 

The Prince saw them halt in the midst of their eager rush 
to serve him — saw them look at each other, waver, and stand 
still. A call stronger than his own had come to them — the 
call that is in each man’s blood, blowing willy-nilly like the 
wind and bidding him obey the teaching of dead forefathers. 
Their hearts were toward the Prince — they hungered for this 
onset at the bridge — but they held back, just as at Derby, be- 
cause old allegiance was demanded by their chieftain. 

“ Macdonalds ! ” cried the Prince again, with desperate 
eagerness. “Who’s for the bridge?” 

And then, before he guessed their purpose, some of his gen- 
tlemen rode close about him, clutched his reins, compelled 
him to desert the field. 

“ All’s lost, your Highness — except your safety,” said one. 

He struggled to get free of them. “ My pleasure,” he said 
hotly, “ is to die as poorer friends are doing.” 

They would not listen. Their love of him — whether it took 


THE GLORY OF IT 


369 


a misguided form or no — compelled them to use force, to dis- 
regard commands, entreaties. His vision, maybe, was clearer 
than their own. They were concerned with his immediate 
welfare, could not look into the years ahead that were to be a 
lingering, heart-broken death, instead of the pleasant end he 
craved. 

They got him to a place of safety, and he glanced at them 
with a reproof so sad and desolate that for the first time they 
doubted their own wisdom. 

“ Gentlemen, it was not well done,” he said, “ but one day, 
if God wills, I shall forgive you.” 

Below them, the Duke of Cumberland had his way with the 
broken Highlanders. Across the moor, and back again, his 
troopers swept, till the field was like a shambles. The High- 
landers disdained to ask for quarter ; the others were too drunk 
with lust of slaughter to think of it; and the roll-call of the 
dead that day among the clans was a tribute to the Stuart and 
their honour. There were near a quarter wounded ; but these 
were outnumbered by the dead. 

And yet the Duke had not supped well enough. In his 
face, as he rode up and down the field, was a light not good 
for any man to see — the light that had touched it dimly when 
he laid siege to Carlisle and talked of whetting his appetite 
by slaughter of its garrison. 

He was unsatisfied, though the wind came down from the 
moor and sobbed across the desolation he had made. He 
checked his horse, pointed to the wounded. 

“ Dispatch these rebels, gentlemen,” he said to the officers 
about him. 

And then, as at Carlisle, the English among his following 
withdrew from the uncleanness of the man. “ We are officers, 
your Highness,” said one. 

“ Aye, and gentlemen. I know your ladylike speech. For 
my part, Em a soldier ” 

“ A butcher, by your leave,” snapped the other. 

The Duke turned savagely on him; but the English closed 


370 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

round their comrade, and their meaning was plain enough to 
be read. 

“ Must I do the work myself ? ” he snarled. 

" It would seem so, if it must be done.” 

And afterwards the gloaming, sad and restless, crept down 
from the grey hills, shrouding the dead and wounded. It 
found Cumberland master of the field; but he was surfeited, 
and the true luck of the battle was with those who had died 
in faith, or with those others of the Prince’s army who were 
seeking cover among the northern hills. For it is not gain 
or loss that matters, but the cleanly heart men bring to accept- 
ance of the day’s fortune. 

Among the fugitives were some of the men of Lancashire 
who had ridden out to join the Prince at Langton; and these 
foregathered, by some clan instinct of their own, in a little 
wood five miles away from the trouble of Culloden Moor. 
Sir Jasper was there, and Rupert, and Maurice, all carrying 
wounds of one sort or another. Demaine’s bailiff was there, 
untouched and full of grumbles as of old. But Squire De- 
maine himself was missing, and young Hunter of Hunters- 
cliff ; and Maurice told how he had seen them die, close beside 
him, at the ditch that lay fifty paces from Culloden Bridge. 

“ God rest them ! ” said Sir Jasper, not halting for the sor- 
row that would come by and by. “ The’ve done with trouble, 
friends, but we have not.” 

Half that night they rested in the sodden wood, with a chill 
wind for blanket ; but they were afoot again long before dawn, 
and overtook the Prince’s company at Ruthven. A council 
was held just after their arrival, and the Prince — who, before 
ever Culloden battle found him in the thick of it, had not slept 
for eight-and-forty hours — was still solicitous touching the 
welfare of his friends. He bade the native-born make for 
their own homes, the English choose the likeliest road to safety 
that offered; for himself, he would keep a few friends about 
him, and would take his chance among the hills. And when 


THE GLORY OF IT 


371 


his gentlemen demurred, wishing to remain, he faced them 
with the pleasant humour that no adversary could kill. 

“ I was not permitted to command when we were in ad- 
vance,” he said ; “ but, gentlemen, we’re in retreat — and surely 
I may claim the privilege ? ” 

When they had gone their separate ways in little companies 
— reluctantly, and looked backward at the Stuart, who was 
meat, and wine, and song to them — the Prince himself was 
left with ten gentlemen about him. Nine of them were Scots- 
men, but the tenth was Rupert, who had a surprising gift these 
days for claiming the post of direst hazard. 

And through that sick retreat the scattered companies were 
aware of the qualities that disaster brings out more clearly 
than any victory can do. Oliphant of Muirhouse, dead for 
the Cause and happy in the end he craved, had asked Sir Jas- 
per long ago at Windyhough if Will Underwood, brave in the 
open hunt, were strong enough to stand a siege; and these 
fugitives, going east and west and north — hopeless and spurred 
forward only by the pursuit behind, the home-sickness ahead 
— were aware, each one of the them, what Oliphant had meant. 

The Highlanders, trudging over hill-tracks to their shiel- 
ings, were buried in a mist of sorrow, that only battle could 
disperse. Lord Murray, riding for his own country, was re- 
flective, soured, and peevish, because his cold arithmetic of 
war was disproven by results. Yet, through the disillusion 
and weariness of this wild scamper for the hills, the strong 
souls of the Rising proved their mettle. The Prince, Lochiel, 
the good and debonair, Sir Jasper and his hunting men of 
Lancashire — those who had lost most, because their hope had 
been most keen, were the strong men in retreat. 

And Rupert, sharing the Prince’s dangers and his confi- 
dence more closely every day, rode up and down among the 
hills like a man possessed by some good angel that would not 
let him fear, or rest, or feel the aches that wet roads by day, 
wet beds by night entailed on him. Whenever a messenger 


3 72 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


was needed to go into dangerous country and fear nothing, 
he claimed first privilege; and it was granted him, for he had 
learned a strange persuasiveness. 

He was at Benbicula with the Prince, where they and the 
crew of a small boat that had landed them met a storm of 
rain that was to last for fourteen hours; where they found an 
empty cottage, with a store of firelogs; where the Prince 
bought a cow for thirty shillings, and proved himself the best 
cook of them all. They had food that night, and a bottle of 
brandy among the six who still kept company together; and 
these unwonted luxuries brought the best gift of all — sleep, 
that is dear to buy when men have kept weariness at bay too 
long. 

Rupert was at Corradale, too, where for three weeks they 
found safety among the islanders of Uist. The royal bag- 
gage was no heavier than a couple of shirts, and the Prince 
was housed in a byre so weather-rotted that he had to sleep o’ 
nights under a tent made of branches and cow-hides, to keep 
the rajn from him. Yet his cheerfulness was unfeigned, for 
he was tired of prudence and spent his whole days hunting 
deer on the hills or fishing in the bay. The Uist folk knew 
him, and the price upon his head; the neighboring isles were 
thick with soldiery in pursuit, and gunboats were busy among 
the inland seas; and yet he moved abroad as if he were some 
big-hearted country gentleman, intent only on following his 
favourite sports in time of peace. 

“ You wear a charmed life, your Highness,” said Rupert, 
as they came down one day from shooting deer. It was near 
the end of their three weeks* sojourn on the island, and the 
danger set so close about the Prince had harassed him, as no 
perils of his own could do. 

“ I believe you, sir,** said the other, turning suddenly. “ I 
bear a charmed life. So does any man for whom God finds a 
need. We die, I think, when our work is done, but not an 
hour before.” And with that he laughed, and got out his 
clay pipe. “ We shall sup on venison to-night, my friend, 


THE GLORY OF IT 373 

and I am hungry. You should not tempt me with matters of 
theology.” 

And so it was afterwards, when they left Uist to go through 
constant perils, by land and sea. The Prince brought to it 
all — discomfort, pursuit outwitted by a hair’s breadth time 
after time — the same unyielding outlook. Fools and cowards 
might fold their hands, reconstructing yesterday and bewail- 
ing all the misadventures that might have been avoided had 
they done this, done that ; but the Stuart took life up from each 
day’s beginning, and went forward, praying in entire sim- 
plicity that his shoulders might be broadened to the coming 
burden. 

When at last, near the end of June, they came near the Skye 
country, a new, surprising page was turned of the story of 
these hunted folk. Until now they had been among men, 
fighting the enemy at Culloden, eluding him during the in- 
cessant, long retreat. But now a woman stepped into their 
lives again ; and, because faith and old habit had trained them 
that way, they were glad that a thread of gold had come to 
bind the rough wounds of life together. 

Not till he died would Rupert forget those days in the West- 
ern Isles. Their grace passed into abiding folksong before 
the year was out ; and he was privileged to watch, step by step, 
the growth of a high regard such as the world seldom sees. 

He saw Flora MacDonald’s first coming to the Prince — at 
Rossinish, in Uist — saw the long, startled glance they ex- 
changed, as if each had been looking for the other since time’s 
beginning. And then he saw her curtsey low, saw him lift 
her with tender haste. 

“ I should kneel to you instead, Miss MacDonald,” he said. 
“ You’ve volunteered to be my guide through dangerous seas, 
they tell me, and I fear for your safety, and yet — I ever liked 
brave women.” 

Rupert had changed his trade of messenger for that of boat- 
man, and was one of the six rowers who rested on their oars 
in the roomy fishing-coble that was waiting to carry the Prince 


3 74 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


to Skye. There was a wild gale blowing, but the June night 
was clear with a sort of tempered daylight, and Rupert 
watched these two, standing on the strip of sandy shore, with 
a queer sense of intuition. The discipline of night-riding, its 
loneliness and urgency, teaches a man to look on at any hap- 
pening with eyes keen for the true, sharp detail of it ; and the 
two figures, as he saw them now, seemed transfigured, secure 
for the moment in some dream of a past life they had shared 
together. 

There was the Prince, his head lifted buoyantly, his lips 
smiling as if Culloden had never been. There was Miss Mac- 
Donald — four-and-twenty, keen for loyalty and sacrifice — with 
something more than loyalty making a happy light about her 
face. She had none of the fripperies that set men’s wits 
astray and poison their clean hold on life ; but, from her buc- 
kled shoes to her brown, shapely head, she was trim, and debo- 
nair, and bonnie, made to keep pace with men along the road 
of high endeavour. 

Rupert, resting on his oar, felt a touch of loneliness and 
heartache. This lass of MacDonald’s recalled the Lancashire 
hills to him because she was so like Nance Demaine, for whose 
sake he was proving himself along the troubled ways. And 
then he had no time for heartache ; for the Prince was hand- 
ing Miss MacDonald into the boat, and the rowers were bid- 
den to make for the first unguarded landing-place in Skye 
which they could find. 

They had an evil passage. The wind never ceased to wail 
and scream across the foamy breakers, but the storm was not 
dark enough to hide them, and in the half-light their boat 
showed clear against the grey-blue of the heaving seas. 
Gunboats were out, searching for the fugitive, who was known 
to be somewhere in among the isles; and once a hail of shot 
passed over them from a man-of-war that set sail in pursuit, 
but could not take them because the wind was contrary. 

For eight hours the rowers strove with the long passage 
overseas from Uist, their arms unwearying at the oars. And 


THE GLORY OF IT 


375 


the Prince would take more than his share of the toil, telling 
them that he was the cause of this night voyage and should 
lend a willing hand on that account. They came to Skye at 
long last, and tried to put in at Waternish on the west coast, 
but found a company of soldiery encamped about a roaring 
fire, and had to put back again into the teeth of the wind. 
And, as if wind and seas were not enough, the men on shore 
pursued them with a rousing volley. One bullet struck the 
boat’s side, and a score others hit the water close about them, 
and rebounded, and went out across the waves with a 
sharp, mournful wail, shrill as the pipes when they are sor- 
rowful. 

No one on board was hit; but the Prince, seeing Miss Mac- 
Donald shrink, put out a hand and touched her, as a devout 
lover might. And the two took hurried counsel. It seemed 
best to cross Snizort Loch, and so reach Monkstadt, where a 
kinsman of her own would give them shelter — unless there, 
too, the soldiery were quartered. 

The Prince wished once again to take an oar, though his 
hands were raw and bleeding ; but no man would give up the 
rowing that, for sake of him they carried, was pleasant to 
them; and so, lest he should be idle altogether, he sang old, 
loyal songs to them, and jested, and made their burden lighter 
— a gift of his. And then Miss MacDonald, whose pluck was 
not to be denied, broke down for a little while, because she 
was spent with endeavour and the wild tumult of the Stuart’s 
coming. And Rupert, tugging at his oar, watched the Prince 
persuade her to lie down in the bottom of the coble, saw him 
take off his plaid and cover her with practical and quiet so- 
licitude, as if he had the right to guard her. 

Aud through the rest of that night-crossing the Prince kept 
stubborn guard about his rescuer, who was sleeping now like 
a child, lest any of the rowers should touch her with his foot 
in moving up and down to ease his limbs. And Rupert, 
though his wits were muddled with incessant toil by land and 
sea, felt something stir at the soul of him, as he saw the way 


376 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


of the Prince’s regard for this daughter of the MacDonalds. 
Again it seemed to him that these two had known each other 
long ago, before the world grew old, and tired, and prone to 
gossip. And again he remembered Nance Demaine, who had 
touched his boyhood with the fire that does not die. 

They came to Monkstadt in safety, but learned that the 
enemy was in possession of the house. And afterwards it was 
to and fro on foot across the good isle of Skye, for many days, 
until they came to the house of Kingsborough, where Flora’s 
home was with her mother and stepfather. 

It was a queer incoming, touched with laughter and the 
needs of every day, as all big enterprises are until we view 
them in the retrospect. There was Kingsborough — the big- 
gest of the big MacDonalds — going in before to prepare his 
wife for the intrusion. And he was manifestly afraid, as the 
big, open-air men are when they are dwarfed by house-walls 
and the indoor cleanliness. 

Kingsborough, after bowing the Prince into the square, tidy 
hall, asked leave to go up and tell his wife the news. And 
presently, from above stairs — while Flora and the Stuart 
waited in the hall — the laird’s wife broke into practical and 
shrill complaint. 

“ There’s the danger, Kingsborough ; and, fore-bye, there’s 
so little in the house. Collops, and eggs, and a dish of oat- 
meal — how should I face the Prince, God bless him, with eggs 
and collops ? ” 

The Prince laughed suddenly. And Miss MacDonald, 
standing apart with the unrest and trouble of her deepening 
regard for the Stuart she had rescued, glanced across at him, 
wondering that he could be gay; and then she laughed with 
him, for the tart good-humour of her mother’s voice was prac- 
tical, and far removed from the glamour the two fugitives had 
shared. 

“You may face me, Mrs. MacDonald,” he said,’ going to 
the stairfoot. “ Collops and eggs are dainties to me these 
days ; and, indeed, I am very hungry.” 


THE GLORY OF IT 


377 


So there was a hurried toilet made, and the mistress of the 
house came down, half of her the laird’s wife, instinct with the 
dignity that knows its station, the other half a picture of curi- 
osity, surprise, bewildered curtseys, because the Stuart claimed 
her hospitality. 

They supped that night as if they dined in state. To any 
meal, to any company, the Prince brought that grace which is 
not lightly won — the grace to touch common things with po- 
etry, and to make a dish of collops as proud as if it were a 
boar’s head brought in to table by stately lackeys. 

Rupert, supping with them, noted less the Prince’s great air 
of ease — he was accustomed to it long ago — than the punctili- 
ous and minute regard he showed to Miss MacDonald. 
Whenever she moved to leave the room — intent on seeing to 
the dishes in the kitchen — he rose and bowed her out. When 
she returned, he rose, and would not be seated till she had 
taken her place again. 

“ You’ll turn poor Flora’s head, your Highness,” said Mrs. 
MacDonald once, after Flora had gone out, some shrewd ma- 
ternal instinct warring with her loyalty. 

“ The head that guided me from Uist to Skye, and to your 
hospitality, would not be lightly turned. I choose to honour 
your daughter, Mrs. MacDonald, by your leave.” 

“ But, your Highness, she’s only a daft slip of a girl. I 
weaned and reared her, and should know.” 

“ You did not cross with us from Uist. And afterwards 
there were the days and nights in Skye, the rains, and the pa- 
tient watching; madam, as God sees us, Miss Flora carries 
the bravest soul in Scotland. I cannot do her too much hon- 
our.” 

Kingsborough, big and simple-hearted — his wife, thrifty 
and not prone to sentiment — looked at their guest with frank 
astonishment. He had been so gay, so debonair, until a 
chance word had touched the depths in him. How could they 
understand him? They had not been through the glamour 
and wild seas, as he had been since Miss MacDonald came to 


378 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


serve him. They did not know the clean, quick love that had 
lain here in wait for him among the western isles. 

Flora came in again, carrying a dish of hot scones. She 
was aware of some new gravity that had settled on the com- 
pany, and her glance sought the Prince’s with instinctive ques- 
tion. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I was praising Miss MacDonald in her 
absence. You must forgive me.” 

-Late that night, when he and Rupert were alone with their 
host, the Prince fell into a mood of reckless gaiety. For a 
while his journeyings were ended. He had supped royally; 
he was to enjoy the luxury of a mattress and clean sheets, 
after many nights spent in the heather or in wave-swept 
boats; and the sheer physical comfort of it was strangely 
pleasant. 

He was a good companion, with a story here, a jest there, 
that set big Kingsborough laughing till he feared to wake the 
goodwife up above. He taught the laird the true way of mix- 
ing whisky-punch. He would not be cajoled to bed, because 
the respite of this sitting beside a warm hearth, with friends 
beside him and Miss MacDonald somewhere in the house, was 
more than food and drink to him. 

“ We must make an early start to-morrow,” said Kings- 
borough, when at last his guest rose. “ It is imperative, your 
Highness.” 

“ No, friend,” said the other, with pleasant unconcern. 
“ To-night I sleep — I tell you, I must sleep. The most will- 
ing horse, Mr. MacDonald, has need of the stable in between- 
whiles.” 

He knew himself and his needs ; and, with a purpose as set- 
tled as his zeal at other times to undergo wakefulness and un- 
remitting hardship, he slept that night so deep that only armed 
intrusion would have roused him. 

Kingsborough and Rupert, pacing up and down below 
stairs the next morning, were consumed with dread for the 
Stuart’s safety. The laird’s wife feared every moment that 


THE GLORY OF IT 


379 


the enemy would come battering at her door. Only Miss 
MacDonald was cool and practical. 

“ His Highness has the gift of knowing when to keep 
awake,” she said, a little undernote of pride and tenderness in 
her voice — “ the gift of knowing when to sleep.” 

And her faith was justified. The Prince came down two 
hours beyond the time that Kingsborough had planned — came 
down with a light step, and a face from which sleep had wiped 
away a year of sorrow. He bade farewell to the laird’s wife, 
who was crying like a child to see him so pleasantly in love 
with danger, and was turning from the door, when he began 
to bleed at the nose. Kingsborough’s wife handed him a ker- 
chief, bewailing the ill omen. 

“ No,” said the Prince, with unconquerable twisting of 
crooked issues to a clean, straight shape. “ The omen’s good. 
Blood has been shed for me, and I’m paying a few of my 
debts, Mrs. MacDonald. I should not like it to be said that I 
left your Highland country a defaulter.” 

The three of them set out — the Prince, and Flora, and Ru- 
pert — and Kingsborough turned suddenly from watching the 
Stuart out of sight. “ By God, wife,” he said suddenly, 
“ we’ve given houseroom to a man ! ” 

“ He’s for death, Hugh,” the goodwife answered, her thrifty 
mind returning to calculation of the odds against the fugitive. 

Kingsborough took a wide look at the hills, where sun and 
mist and shadows chased each other across the striding rises. 
“ Death? ” he snapped. “ It comes soon or late — but the soul 
of a man outrides it.” 

It was on their way to Portree that the three fugitives 
learned how clearly Miss MacDonald’s faith in her Prince had 
been justified. They met a shepherd — Donald MacDonald by 
name — who told them that, two hours before, “ the foreign- 
ers ” had been up and down between Portree and Kingsbor- 
ough, searching for the Prince. They had left the island a 
half-hour ago, he added, following some new rumour that his 
Highness was still hiding in South Uist. 


380 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ If I’d not slept so late, we should all three of us have been 
( taken, Miss MacDonald,” said the Prince, as they went for- 
ward. 

“ I trusted you,” she answered. And the quietness of her 
voice rang like a bugle-call. 

And Rupert, with that fine sixth sense that a man learns 
from hazard and night-riding, knew that these two were talk- 
ing with the freemasonry of souls that have learned kinship 
and proved it through long, disastrous roads. 

They went to Portree, and found an eight-oared boat there, 
with seven rowers in it. Rupert went on board, took his place 
at the eighth oar. And again, as far away in Uist — and years 
ago, it seemed — he watched the Prince and Miss MacDonald 
foregathered on the shore. In Uist they had met, these two, 
under a driving wind that blew across the tempered radiance 
of the June night hours. Here they were standing in hot day- 
light, with never a breeze to ruffle the happy face of land and 
sea. And yet they had been glad in Uist, with the storm 
about them; and here in Skye they stood, and looked at one 
another, and were empty of all hope. 

They had spent few days together, as time is reckoned, the 
Prince and Miss MacDonald of the isles. But the days they 
shared had been packed full of hardship, danger of pursuing 
soldiery, peril of their warm, human liking for each other — the 
human liking, that gains depth and strength from trouble. 
The Prince had gone through a Scotland set thick with women 
who asked a love-lock, a glance, and all that follows. He had 
kept troth instead with the stubborn march of men who fol- 
lowed the open road with him. Women came before and 
after strife — that had been his gospel, until he met Miss Mac- 
Donald, good to look at, and brave to rescue him. 

And now they stood together on the shore of Portree Bay. 
They were Prince and loyal subject, and yet they were chil- 
dren crying in the dark, needing each other, heartsick at part- 
ing, ready, if their faith had been a little weaker, to catch at 


THE GLORY OF IT 381 

the coward’s proverb that the world is well lost for a love for- 
bidden. 

To these two, parting on the edge of Portree Bay, there 
came a sudden intuition of the soul. They saw — almost as if 
it stood between them — a sword, keen-edged, and clean, and 
silvery-*— the sword that had guarded them safely through 
worse dangers than gunboats and the stormy seas. They saw 
the days behind — the few days granted them for comradeship 
— the years stretching out and out ahead, empty and steep and 
wind-swept as the lone hill-tracks of Skye. 

The rowers waited, impatient to be off, because each mo- 
ment lost was packed with danger. But these two would 
never again fear any sort of hazard; they had gained too 
much, were losing too much. 

Their glances met. One was taking the high road trod by 
the bleeding feet of royalty; the other was taking the low 
road, that led to the house of Kingsborough, its maddening, 
quiet routine of housewifery — mending of the laird’s stock- 
ings, seeing that Mrs. MacDonald’s fowls were tended, going, 
day by day, and year by year, through the sick, meaningless 
routine of housework. 

And one knew that, wherever his feet were planted, his 
heart would return constantly to the misty isle that had taught 
him the strong love and the lasting. And the other knew that 
she would never cease to look out from Kingsborough’s win- 
dows, when leisure served, and trick herself into the belief 
that her man was returning — crowned or uncrowned, she 
cared not which — was returning, with the wind in his feet and 
the glad look in his face, to tell her all the things unspoken 
during these last days of trial. 

The sun beat hot on the rowers’ backs, and this parting 
seemed long to them. To Miss MacDonald and the Prince it 
seemed brief, because the coming separation showed endless 
as eternity. 

And then at last the Prince stooped to her hand, and kissed 


382 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


it. “ Your servant, Miss MacDonald,” he said — “ your serv- 
ant till I die, God knows.” 

Rupert watched it all with eyes trained to understanding. 
And, when the fugitives were aboard and they were straining 
at their oars, he was sure that the Prince would give one long, 
backward glance at Miss MacDonald. But the Stuart was 
older to life’s teaching, and would not look behind when he 
had chosen the plain road ahead. His eyes were set forward 
— forward, over the dappled, summer seas, to the days of 
hiding and unrest waiting for him. And through his bitter- 
ness and lonely need for Miss MacDonald he found a keen, 
high courage, as the man’s way is. And Flora MacDonald, as 
the woman’s way is, watched the boat grow less and less until 
it was a dark speck dancing on a sea of violet, and green, and 
amethyst, and fought for the resignation that brings peace, but 
never the trumpet-note of gladness that had kept her company 
on the dangerous seas. 


CHAPTER XXI 


LOVE IN EXILE 

The Skye boatmen took their Prince safely to the mainland, 
and were not ashamed because they wept at parting from him. 
And then the Stuart and Sir Jasper’s heir set out again along 
the lone tracks that taught them understanding of each other 
— understanding of the world that does not show its face 
among the crowded haunts where men lie and slander and 
drive hard bargains one against the other. Their bodies were 
hard, for wind and weather had toughened them till they were 
lean and rugged as upland trees that have grown strong with 
storm. Their courage was steady, because all except life was 
lost. And at their hearts there was a quick, insistent music, 
as if the pipes were playing. They were fighting against long 
odds, and they were northern born; and the world, in some 
queer way, went not amiss with them. 

Rupert, in between the journeys and the vigils shared with 
the Prince, was often abroad on the errands that had grown 
dear to him since coming into Scotland. He would ride here, 
ride there, with night and danger for companions, gathering 
news of the enemies, the friends, who could be counted on. 
And he found constantly the stirring knowledge that, though 
he had not been keen to ride to hounds in Lancashire, he was 
hot to take his fences now. 

On one of these days he rode in, tired and spent, bringing 
news from the braes of Glenmoriston, and found the Stuart 
smoking his pipe, while he skinned a deer that he had shot. 

“ You are killing yourself for loyalty,” said the Prince, 
glancing at him with a sudden, friendly smile. 

“ By your leave, sir,” said Rupert, as if he talked of Mur- 
ray’s plain arithmetic, “ I am alive at last.” 

383 


384 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ You’re made of the martyr’s stuff,” said the other. 

“ Your Highness, they called me the scholar there in Lan- 
cashire, and I knew what that meant. I am trying to outride 
the shame.” 

Rupert was tired out. The Prince was tired at heart, be- 
cause of Culloden, because of Miss MacDonald, whom he was 
not to see again, and all the dreams that had tumbled from 
the high skies to sordid earth. Neither of them had tasted 
food for six-and-thirty hours. And at these times men are 
apt to find a still, surprising companionship, such as the 
tramps kno\y who foot it penniless along the roads. 

“ We have found our kingdom, you and I,” said the Prince, 
with sudden intuition 1 — “ here on the upland tracks, where a 
man learns something of the God who made him.” 

Rupert looked out across the mountains, blue-purple in the 
gloaming, and caught the other’s mood, and spoke as a friend 
does to a friend, when the heart needs a confidant. “ It is all 
a riddle,” he said slowly. “ I thought all lost, after Culloden — 
and yet I’ve tasted happiness, tasted it for the first time in my 
life. To carry your life on the saddle with me, to keep open 
eyes when I’m sick for sleep, to know that the Stuart trusts 
me — I tell you, I have tasted glory.” 

The Prince turned his head aside. This was the loyalty 
known to him since he first set foot in Scotland, the service he 
claimed, he knew not why, from gentle and simple of his well- 
wishers. And he was remembering how many of these eager 
folk had died on his behalf, was forgetting that he, too, had 
gone sleepless through peril and disaster because he carried at 
his saddle-bow, not one life only, but a kingdom’s fate. 

“ Your news from Glenmoriston, sir?” he asked sharply. 

“ Pleasant news. A man has died for you, with gallantry.” 

“You call it pleasant news?” 

“ Listen, your Highness ! It was one Roderick MacKenzie 
— he was a merchant in Edinburgh, and left the town to follow 
you ; and he found his way, after Culloden, to the hills about 
Glenmoriston. He was alone, and a company of the enemy 


LOVE IN EXILE 


385 


surprised him ; and he faced them, and killed two before they 
overcame him ; and he died in anguish, but found strength to 
lift himself just before the end. He knew that he was like 
you, in height and face, and cried, ‘ God forgive you, you have 
killed your Prince ! ’ ” 

“ It was brave ; it was well meant. But, sir, it is not pleas- 
ant news.” 

“ He bought your safety. They are carrying his head to 
London to claim the ransom. And the troops have left the 
hills, your Highness — they believe you dead.” 

“ I wish their faith were justified,” said the other, with the 
bitterness that always tortured him when he heard that men 
had died on his behalf. “ Your pardon,” he added by and by. 
“ I should thank you for the news — and yet I cannot.” 

The next day they climbed the brae and went down the long, 
heathery slope that took them to Glenmoriston ; and nowhere 
was there ambush or pursuit, as Rupert had foretold — only 
crying of the birds on hilly pastures, and warmth of the July 
sun as it ripened the ling to full bloom, and humming of the 
bees among the early bell-heather. 

They came to the glen at last, and ahead of them, a half-mile 
away, there was blue smoke rising from the chimney of a 
low, ill-thatched farmstead. And the Prince touched Rupert’s 
arm as they moved forward. 

“ Lord, how hunger drums at a man’s ribs ! ” he said, with a 
tired laugh. “ If th^re were all the Duke’s army lying in wait 
for us yonder, we should still go on, I think. There may be 
collops there, and eggs — all the good cheer that Mrs. Mac- 
Donald thought scanty when we came to the laird’s house at 
Kingsborough.” 

“ By your leave,” said Rupert gravely, “ it does not bear 
speaking of. I begin to understand how Esau felt when he 
sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.” 

They reached the house, and they found there six outlaws 
of the hills, ready with the welcome Rupert had made secure 
before he led the Prince here. They had entrenched them- 


386 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


selves in this wild glen, had ridden abroad, robbing with dis- 
cretion, but never hurting a man who was too poor to pay 
tribute. Their name was a byword for cattle-lifting, and they 
lived for plunder. Yet, somehow, when the Stuart came 
among them, with thirty thousand pounds easy in the gaining, 
they disdained blood-money. 

For all that, another hope of the Prince’s crumbled and 
went by him, after he had greeted his new hosts. There were 
neither eggs nor collops in the house — only a dish of oatmeal, 
without milk to ease its roughness. The Glenmoriston men 
explained that Cumberland’s soldiery had been about the glen, 
had raided their cattle and sheep, had laid bare the country- 
side. 

“ For all that,” said the Prince, unconquerable in disaster, 
“ I thank you for your oatmeal. As God sees me, you have 
stilled a little of the ache I had.” 

And the Glenmoriston men liked the way of him. And 
when, next day, he and Rupert went up the hills and stalked a 
deer, and brought it home for the cooking, their loyalty was 
doubled. 

Through the days that followed the outlaws found leisure to 
prove the guests they harboured. In the hill countries a man’s 
reputation stands, not on station or fair words, but on the 
knowledgable, quiet outlook his neighbours bring to bear on 
him. And ever a little more the outlaws liked these two, who 
were lean and hard and weather-bitten as themselves. 

The Prince would not claim shelter in the house, because 
long use had taught him to prefer a bed among the heather. 
And Rupert, lying near by o’ nights, learned more of the Stu- 
art than all these last disastrous days had taught him. When 
a man sleeps in the open, forgetting there may be a listener, 
he is apt to lose his hold on the need for reticence that house 
walls bring. 

The Prince, half between sleep and waking, would lift him- 
self on an elbow, would murmur that men had died for him — 
men better than himself, who had followed him for loyalty 


LOVE IN EXILE 


387 


and not for hire, men whom he should have shepherded to 
better purpose. And then he would snatch an hour or two of 
sleep, and would wake again with a question, sharp and hur- 
ried and unquiet. 

“Where’s Miss MacDonald? She’s in danger. The seas 
are riding high — they’re riding high, I say ! — and there’s only 
my poor plaid to cover her.” 

And so it was always when the Prince rambled in his sleep. 
There was never a complaint on his own behalf, never a wild 
lament that he was skulking, a broken man, among the moun- 
tains after coming near to London and high victory. He had 
two griefs only, in the night hours that probe to the heart of 
a man — passionate regret for the slain, passionate regard for 
Miss MacDonald’s safety. 

And once the Prince, though he lay in a dead sleep, began 
to speak of Miss MacDonald with such praise, such settled 
and devout regard, that Rupert got up from the heather and 
went out into the still summer night, lest he pried too curiously 
into sacred things. And as he went up and down the glen, 
scenting the subtle odours that steal out at night-time, his 
thoughts ran back to Lancashire. It seemed long since he had 
roamed the moors in bygone summers, with just these keen, 
warm scents about him, counting himself the scholar, aching 
for Nance Demaine, dreaming high, foolish dreams of a day 
that should come which would prove him fit to wear her fa- 
vour. 

And he was here, leaner and harder than of old, with a deed 
or two to his credit. And he had learned a week ago, while 
riding on the Prince’s business, that Lady Royd and Nance had 
come to Edinburgh, intent on sharing the work of brave 
women there who were aiding fugitives, by means fair or 
crafty, to reach the shores of France. He knew that his 
father and Maurice were safely over-seas ; and a sudden hope 
flashed across the hard, unremitting purpose that had kept his 
knees close about the saddle these last days. When the Prince 
was secure, when these hazards were over — the hazards that 


388 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


had grown strangely pleasant — there might be leisure to return 
to earlier dreams, to wake and find them all come true. 

For an hour Rupert paced the glen, with gentler thoughts 
for company than he had known since he first killed a man 
at the siege of Windyhough. Then, with a shrug of the 
shoulders, he remembered to-morrow and its needs, and went 
back and settled himself to sleep ; but he did not lie so near to 
the Prince as before, lest he overheard him talk again of Miss 
MacDonald. 

The next day news came that the soldiery were out among, 
the hills again. The gallant head of Roderick MacKenzie, 
who had earned a long respite for his Prince, had been taken 
to London, and men who knew the Stuart had sworn that it 
bore little likeness to him ; and news had been sped north, by 
riders killing a horse at every journey’s end, that the Prince 
was still at large among the Highlands. 

The Glenmoriston men were unmoved by this new trouble. 
They explained, with careless humour, that their glen was 
already so stripped of food as to be scarce worth living in; 
and they went out with their guests into the unknown perils 
waiting for them as if they went to revelry. And the Prince 
learned afresh that a man, when his back is to the wall, had 
best not seek friends among the sleek and prosperous, who 
have cherished toys to love, but among the outlaws and the 
driven folk who know the open road of life. 

It was by aid of the Glenmoriston men, their knowledge 
of the passes, that the fugitives came safe to Lochiel’s country 
of Lochaber, that, after dangers so close-set as to be almost 
laughable — so long the odds against them were — they reached 
the shore of Loch Moidart and found a French privateer beat- 
ing about the coast. Those on board the ship were keeping an 
anxious look-out toward both land and sea; they had been 
advised that the Prince, with luck, might reach Moidart about 
noon, and they knew, from sharp experience during their 
voyage to the bay, that the enemy’s gunboats were thick as 
flies about the western isles. 


LOVE IN EXILE 


389 


It was an odd company that gathered on the strand while 
the ship beat inshore with the half of a light, uncertain wind. 
The Prince was there, Lochiel and Rupert, and a small band 
of loyal gentry who had been in hiding round about their 
homes. Yet a beggar in his rags and tatters might have joined 
them and claimed free passage to the French coast, so far as 
otuward seeming went. Their clothes were made up of odds 
and ends, begged or borrowed during the long retreat. All 
were itching from the attacks of the big, lusty fleas that 
abound along the loyal isles. The one sign that proved them 
the Stuart’s gentlemen was a certain temperate ease of car- 
riage, a large disdain of circumstance, a security, gay and dom- 
inant, in the faith that preferred beggarman’s rags to fine rai- 
ment bought by treachery. They did not fear, did not regret, 
though they were leaving all that meant home and the cosy 
hearth. 

The Prince, while the French ships were beating inshore, 
took Lochiel aside. Through the wild campaign they had been 
like twin brothers, these two, showing the same keen faith, 
the like courage under hardship. 

“ Lochiel, you know the country better than I. You’re bred 
to your good land, while I was only born to it. You will tell 
me where the Isle of Skye lies from here.” 

“ Yonder,” said the other, pointing across the grey-blue haze 
of summer seas. 

And the Prince stood silent, thinking of the victory there 
in Skye — the victory that had left him wearier than Culloden’s 
sick defeat had done. And Lochiel, who had had his own 
afifairs to attend to lately, and had been aloof from gossip, 
wondered as he saw the trouble in the other’s face. 

The Prince turned at last. “ Lochiel,” he said, with a tired 
smile, “ how does the Usurper’s proclamation run? Thirty 
thousand pounds on my head — dead or alive! Well, alive or 
dead, I wish this tattered body of mine were still in Skye — in 
Skye, Lochiel, where I left the soul of me.” 

“ You are sad, your Highness — — ” 


390 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Sad ? Nay, I’ve waded deeper than mere sadness, like 
the Skye mists out yonder. Well, we stand where we stand, 
friend,” he added, with sharp return from dreams, “ and the 
ship is bringing to.” 

There was still a little while before the boats were lowered 
from the shore, and the Prince, pacing up and down the strand, 
encountered Rupert. “ A fine ending ! ” he said, with temper- 
ate bitterness. “ I landed in Lochaber from France with seven 
gentlemen. I go back with a few more. This is the fruit of 
your toil, Mr. Royd — and of mine.” 

And, “ No, by your leave,” said Rupert. “ Your Highness 
has lit a fire that will never die — a fire of sheer devotion ” 

“ Ah ! the courtier speaks.” 

Rupert’s voice broke, harshly and without any warning. He 
saw his Prince in evil case, when he should have been a con- 
queror. He remembered the night rides, the faith, that had 
had the crowning of the Stuart as their goal. “ A broken 
heart speaks — a heart broken in your service, sir,” he said. 

The man’s strength, his candid, deep simplicity, struck home 
to the Prince, bringing a foolish mist about his eyes. “ Your 
love goes deep as that ? ” he said. 

“ It goes deeper than my love of life, your Highness.” 

So then, after a silence, the other laid a strong kindly hand 
on his shoulder. “ You’ll go far and well for me, sir — but 
put away that superstition of the broken heart. Believe me, 
for I know ” — he glanced across the misty stretch of sea that 
divided him from Skye — “ there are broken hopes, and broken 
dreams, and disaster sobbing at one’s ears, but a man — a man, 
sir, does not permit his heart to break. You and I — I think 
we have our pride.” 

When the boats grounded on the beach, the Prince waited 
till his gentlemen got first aboard, and at last there were only 
himself and Rupert left standing on the shore. 

“ You will precede me, Mr. Royd. It is my privilege just 
now to follow, not to lead,” said the Prince. 

“ Your Highness, I stay, by your leave.” 


LOVE IN EXILE 


391 


The mist had been creeping down from the tops for the past 
hour, and now the light, outer fringe of it had reached the 
water-line. The waiting boat lay in a haze of mystery; the 
privateer beyond showed big and wraithlike, though a shrouded 
sunlight still played on the crests of mimic waves. And the 
Stuart and Rupert stood regarding each other gravely at this 
last meeting for many weeks to come. 

“You stay?” echoed the Prince. “Sir, you have done so 
much for me — and I looked to have your company during the 
crossing; and, indeed, you must be ill of your exertions to 
decline safety now.” 

Rupert glanced at the ship, then at the Stuart’s face. There 
was temptation in the longing to be near his Prince until 
France was reached, but none in the thought .of personal 
safety. “ I lay awake last night,” he said slowly, “ and it grew 
clear, somehow, that I was needed here in Scotland. There’s 
the country round Edinburgh, your Highness — packed thick 
with loyal men who are waiting their chance to find a ship 
across to France — and I hold so many threads that Oliphant of 
Muirhouse would have handled better, if he had lived.” 

“ Why, then,” said the Prince, yielding to impulse after these 
months of abnegation, “ we’ll let our friends set sail without 
us. These gentry did me service. You shall teach me to re- 
turn it.” 

“Your Highness, it would ruin all! I can ride where you 
cannot, because I’m of slight account ” 

“ So you, too, have your mathematics, like the rest,” put in 
the other wearily — “ and all your sums add up to the one 
total — that I must be denied the open hazard. I tell you, Mr. 
Royd, it is no luxury to take ship across to France and leave 
my friends in 'danger.” 

The mist was thickening, and Lochiel, growing anxious on 
account of the delay, leaped ashore and came to where the 
two were standing. And the Prince, returning to the prose of 
things, knew that he must follow the road of tired retreat 
mapped out for him since Derby. 


392 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


“ Lochiel,” he said grimly, “ I was planning an escape — 
from safety. And your eyes accuse me, because my heart is 
with this gentleman who chooses to stay in Scotland.” 

And then he told what Rupert had in mind ; and Lochiel, for 
all the urgency, halted a moment to appraise this lean, tranquil 
man who met the call of destiny as if it were an invitation to 
some pleasant supper-party. 

“ It was so Oliphant carried himself, Mr. Royd,” he said 
gravely. “ God knows I wish you well.” 

They parted. And Rupert watched their boat reach the pri- 
vateer, watched the ship’s bulk glide huge and ghostly into the 
mists. He was hard and zealous, had chosen his road deliber- 
ately; but he was human, too, and a sense of utter loneliness 
crept over him. The Cause was lost. Many of his friends 
would not tread French or Scottish ground again, because the 
soil lay over them. He had not tasted food that day, and 
the mist seemed to be soaking into the bones of him. And 
loyalty, that had brought him to this pass, showed like a dim, 
receding star which mocked him as a will-o’-the-wisp might 
do. 

For all that, he was born and bred a Royd, and the discipline 
of many months was on his side. And, little by little, he re- 
gained that steadiness of soul — not to be counterfeited or re- 
placed by any other joy — which comes to the man whose back 
is to the wall, with a mob of dangers assaulting him in front. 

The Glenmoriston men had been offered their chance of a 
passage to France with the Prince, but had declined it, prefer- 
ring their own country and the dangerous life that had grown 
second nature to them. And Rupert, knowing the glen to 
which they had ridden after speeding the Stuart forward, 
waited till the mists had lifted a little and found his way to 
them. 

They crossed themselves when he appeared among them as 
they sat on the slope of the brae, cooking the mid-day meal ; 
but when he proved himself no ghost and explained the reason 
of his coming, and his need to be set on the way to Edinburgh, 


LOVE IN EXILE 


39S 

they warmed afresh to his view of that difficult business named 
life. He shared their meal, and afterwards one of their num- 
ber, Hector, by name, led him out along the first stage of his 
journey south. 

The mists had cleared by this time, leaving the braesides rus- 
set where the sun swept the autumn brackens, but the mood 
they bring to Highlandmen was strong on Rupert’s guide. 
Hector could find no joy in life, no talk to ease the going. In- 
stead, he fell into a low, mournful chant ; and the words of it 
were not calculated to raise drooping spirits : 

“ But I have seen a dreary dream 
Beyond the Isle o’ Skye, 

I saw a dead man won the fight. 

And I think that man was I.” 

A little chill crossed Rupert’s courage, as if a touch of east 
wind had come from the heart of the warm skies. He had 
seen many dreary dreams of late; had fared beyond the Isle 
o’ Skye ; what if Hector were “ seeing far,” and this dirge 
were an omen of the coming days ? And then he laughed, be- 
cause in the dangerous tracks men make their own omens or 
disdain them altogether. 

“You’re near the truth, Hector,” he broke in; “but it’s 
only a half-dead man. There’s life yet in him.” 

And Hector glowered at him ; for the Highland folk, when 
they are hugging sadness close, cherish it as a mother does 
her firstborn babe. For all that, he brought Rupert safely, 
after three days’ marching, to the next post of his journey, and 
passed him on to certain outlaws whose country lay farther 
south; and by this sort of help, after good and evil weather 
and some mischances by the way, Rupert came at last to 
Edinburgh and reached the house where he knew that Lady 
Royd and Nance were lodging. 

The house lay very near to Holyrood ; and as he went down 
the street Rupert halted for a while, forgetful of his errand. 
The tenderest moon that ever lit a troubled world looked down 


394 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


on this palace of departed glories. The grey pile was mel- 
lowed, transfigured by some light o’ dreams. It was as if the 
night knew all about the Stuarts who would haunt Holyrood 
so long as its walls stood ; knew their haplessness, their charm, 
their steadfast hold on the fine, unthrifty faith they held ; knew 
the answer that some of them, who had gone before, had 
found in the hereafter that does not weigh with the shop- 
keepers’ scales. 

There is a soul in such walls as Holyrood’s, and Rupert 
stood as if he held communion with a friend whose sympa- 
thies ran step by step with his. Here Mary Stuart had stood 
alone, a queen in name, facing the barbarous, lewd nobles 
who were, by title of mere courtesy, her gentlemen. Here 
she had seen Rizzio hurried down the twisting stair, had 
supped with her fool-husband, Darnley. From here she had 
gone out, the queen of hearts and tragedy, to that long exile 
which was to end at Fotheringay. 

Here, too, the Prince had kept high state, a year ago, and 
all Edinburgh had flocked to dance a Stuart measure. He 
came fresh from his first battle, crowned with victory and 
charm of person; and the clans were rising fast; and hope 
shone bright toward London and the crown. 

Rupert looked at the grey pile and felt all this, as one 
listens to the silence of a friend who does not need to speak. 
And then a drift of cloud came across the moon, and Holyrood 
lay wan and grey. It was as if a sudden gust had quenched 
all the candles that had lit the ballroom here when the yellow- 
haired laddie came dancing south. 

And still the fugitive tarried. He had been used so long 
to night roads and the constant peril that this dim light, and 
the wind piping at his ear, pleased him more than any blaze 
of candles and lilt of dance-music. Deep knowledge came to 
him, bred of the hazards that had made him hard and lean. 
He sorrowed no more for Derby and Culloden; his present 
thirst and hunger went by him, as things of slight account; 
for he remembered the long months of hiding, the intimacy 


LOVE IN EXILE 


395 


he had been privileged to share with Prince Charles Edward. 
There had been no glamour of the dance, no pomp, about these 
journeyings through the Highlands; there had been no swift, 
eager challenge and applause from ladies’ eyes; and yet Ru- 
pert had tested, as few had done, the fine edge and temper of 
the Stuart charm. 

Here, under the shadow of grey Holyrood, he loitered to 
recall their wayfaring together. There had been winter jour- 
neyings through incessant rain, or snow, or winds that raved 
down mountain passes ; there had been summer travels through 
the heather, with the sun beating pitilessly on them, over the 
stark length of moors that had none but brackish water and 
no shade. They had slept o’ nights with danger for a pillow 
and the raw wind for coverlet. And through it all the Prince 
had shown a brave, unanswerable front to the sickness of 
defeat, the hiding when he longed for action. If food and 
drink were scarce, he sang old clan songs or recalled light jests 
and stories that had once roused the French Court to laughter. 
If danger pressed so closely from all four quarters of the 
hill that escape seemed hopeless, his cheeriness infected those 
about him with a courage finer than their own. 

Looking back on these days, Rupert knew that no ball at 
Holyrood here, no triumph-march to London, could have 
proved the Stuart as those Highland journeyings had done. 
The Prince and he had learned the way of gain in loss, and 
with it the gaiety that amazes weaker men. 

From Holyrood — the moon free of clouds and the grey walls 
finding faith again — a friendly message came to him. He 
caught the Stuart glamour up — the true, abiding glamour that 
does not yield to this world’s limitations. What he had read 
in the library at Windyhough was now a triumph-song that 
he had found voice to sing. 

He came to the house where Lady Royd was lodging, and 
knocked at the door; and presently a trim Scots lassie opened 
to him, and saw him standing there in the moonlight of the 
street, his face haggard, his clothes, made up of borrowed odds 


396 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


and ends, suggesting disrepute. She tried to close the door 
in his face; but Rupert had anticipated this, and pushed his 
way inside. 

“ Is Miss Demaine in the house? ” he asked. 

The maid recovered a little of her courage and her native 
tartness. “ She is, forbye. Have you come buying old claes, 
or are you looking just for a chance to steal siller from the 
hoose ? ” 

Rupert caught at the help she gave him. “ There’s the quick 
wit ye have, my lass,” he said. 

“ Ah, now, you’ll not be ‘ my lassing ’ me ! I’ll bid ye keep 
your station, as I keep mine.” 

“ Well, then, my dear, go up to your mistress — the young 
mistress, I mean — and tell her there’s a pedlar wanting her — 
a pedlar from the hills of Lancashire. Tell her he comes 
buying and selling white favours” 

“ So you’re just one of us,” said the maid, with surprising 
change of front. Then, her Scots caution getting the better 
of her again, “ Your voice is o’ the gentry folk,” she added, 
“ but you’re a queer body i’ your claes. How should I know 
what you’d be stealing while I ran up to> tell the mistress ? ” 

Rupert, for answer, closed and barred the door behind him, 
and pointed up the stair. And then the maid, by the master- 
ful, quiet way of him, knew that he came peddling honesty. 

And by and by Nance came down, guessing who had come, 
because twice during the past month, Rupert had sent word to 
her by messengers encountered haphazard in the Highland 
country. 

At the stairfoot she halted, and never saw what clothes he 
wore. She looked only at his hard, tired face, at the straight 
carriage of him, as if he stood on parade. And, without her 
knowing it, or caring either way, a welcome, frank and lumi- 
nous, brought a sudden beauty to the face that had been mag- 
ical enough to him in the far-off Lancashire days. 

The warmth of the lighted hall, the sense of courage and 
well-being that Nance had always brought him, were in sharp 


LOVE IN EXILE 


397 


contrast with the night and the ceaseless peril out of doors. 
He went to her, and took her two hands, and would not be 
done with reading what her eyes had to tell him. There could 
be no doubting what had come to them — the love deep, and 
to the death, and loyal ; the love, not to be bought or counter- 
feited, that touches common things with radiance. 

Rupert was giddy with it all. He had only to stoop and 
claim her, without question asked or answered. And yet he 
would not. He fought against this sudden warmth that 
tempted him to forget his friends — those driven comrades 
who trusted him to see them safely on board ship to the French 
coast. He put Nance away, as a courtier might who fears to 
hurt his queen, and only the strength of him redeemed his 
ludicrous and muddied clothes. 

“ You are not proved yet? ” said Nance, with a gentle laugh 
of raillery and comradeship. “ And yet the men who come 
in from the Highlands — the men we have helped to safety, 
Lady Royd and I — bring another tale of you.” 

Good women and bad are keen to play the temptress when 
they see a man hard set by the peril of his own wind-driven, 
eager heart ; for Eve dies hard in any woman. 

“ There are others,” he said stubbornly — “ loyal men who 
trust me to bring them into Edinburgh.” 

“ Scruples? ” She mocked him daintily. “ Women are not 
won by scruples.” 

He looked at her with the disarming, boyish smile that she 
remembered from old days — the smile which hid a purpose 
hard as steel. “ Then women must be lost, Nance,” he an- 
swered suavely. 

Nance looked at him. He had changed since the days when 
her least whim had swayed him more than did the giving of 
her whole heart now. He was steady and unyielding, like a 
rock against which the winds beat idly., And suddenly a 
loneliness came over her, a wild impatience of men’s outlook. 
She recalled the day at Windyhough, just after Sir Jasper had 
ridden out, when Lady Royd had complained that honour was 


398 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


more to a man than wife-love and his home’s need of him. 
She remembered how, with a girl’s untutored zeal, she had 
blamed Sir Jasper’s wife because she could not realise the 
high romance of it. But now she understood. 

“ You rode out to prove yourself — for my sake and the 
Cause ? ” she said, with cool disdain. 

“ Yes, Nance.” 

“ And you found — adventure. And your name is one to 
kindle hero-worship wherever loyal fugitives meet and speak 
of you. Oh, you shall have your due, Rupert! But in the 
doing of it the hard endeavour grew dear in itself — dearer than 
life, than — than little Nance Demaine, for whose sake you got 
to horse.” 

He flushed, knowing she spoke truth; and he stood at bay, 
ashamed of what should have been his pride. And then he re- 
turned, by habit, to the mod taught him by night-riding and 
the over-arching skies. 

“ Men love that way,” he said bluntly. 

Nance was twisting and untwisting the kerchief she held 
between her capable, strong fingers. She had not guessed till 
now the bitterness of tongue she could command. 

“ Oh, yes, my dear ; we learned it together, did we not, in 
the library at Windyhough? There was a book of Richard 
Lovelace, his poems, and he was very graceful when he bade 
his wife farewell: 

“ ‘ I could not love thee, dear, so much 
Loved I not honour more.’ 

And honour took him to the open — to the rousing hunt — and 
his wife stayed on at home.” 

Rupert, unskilled in the lore that has tempted many fools 
afield, was dismayed by the attack. In his simplicity, he had 
looked for praise when he put temptation by him and asked 
only for a God-speed till the road of his plain duty was ended 
and he was free to claim her. He did not know — how should 


LOVE IN EXILE 399 

he? — that women love best the gifts that never reach their 
feet. 

“Nance,” he said, “what ails you women? It was so at 
Windyhough, when the Loyal Meet rode out, and mother 
cried as if they’d found dishonour.” 

“ What ails us ? ” She was not bitter now, but helpless, and 
her eyes were thick with tears. “ Our birthright ails us. 
We’re like children crying in the dark, and the night’s lonely 
round us, and we are far from home. And the strong hand 
comes to us, and we cast it off, because we need its strength. 
And then we go crying in the dark again, and wonder why 
God made us so. And — and that is what ails us,” she added, 
with a flash of sharp, defiant humour. And her eyes clouded 
suddenly. “ I — I have lost a father to the Cause. It is hard 
to be brave these days, Rupert.” 

So then he looked neither before nor after, but took the 
straight way and the ready with her. And by and by the 
yapping of a pampered dog broke the silence of the house, 
and Lady Royd’s voice sounded, low and querulous, from the 
stairhead. 

“ Nance, where are you ? Poor Fido is not well — not well 
at all.” 

For the moment Rupert believed that he was home at 
Windyhough again. Fido’s bark, the need paramount that his 
wants must be served at once, were like old days. 

“ They have not told her you are here,” said Nance. “ I’ll 
run up and break the news.” 

When Rupert came into the parlour up above, Fido, true to 
old habit, ran yapping round him, and bit his riding-boots ; for 
he hated men, because they knew him for a lap-dog. And, 
after Jhe din had died down a little, Rupert stepped to his 
mother’s side, and stooped to kiss her hand. And she looked 
him up and down; and the motherhood in her was keen 
and proved, but she could forego old habits as little as could 
Fido. 

“ Dear heart, what clothes to wear in Edinburgh ! ” she 


400 THE LONE ADVENTURE 

cried. “ It’s as well you’re not known in the town for a 
Royd.” 

“ Yes, it’s as well, mother,” he answered dryly. 

“ You are thinner than you were, Rupert, and straighter in 
the shoulders, and — and many things have happened to you.” 

“ I rode out for happenings.” 

“ Oh, yes, you’re so like your father ; and they tell me what 
you’ve done ” 

“ And you, mother?” he broke in. “There are gentlemen 
of the Prince’s who would not be safe in France to-day with- 
out your help — yours and Nance’s.” 

“ There, my dear, you fatigue me ! I have done so little. 
It grew dull in Lancashire, waiting for news of your father. 
It was all so simple — Fido, my sweet, you will not bark at 
Rupert; he’s a friend — and then I had my own fortune, you 
see, apart from Windy hough, and one must spend money 
somehow, must one not? So I began playing at ships — just 
like a child gone back to the nursery — and Nance here was as 
big a baby as myself.” 

If Rupert had changed, so had Lady Royd. There was no 
faded prettiness now about her face, but there were lines of 
beauty. Behind her light handling of these past weeks in 
Edinburgh there was a record of sleepless nights, of harassed 
days, of discomfort and peril undertaken willingly. She had 
spent money in providing means of passage for the exiles; 
but she had spent herself, too, in ceaseless stratagem and 
watchfulness. 

“ It was all so piquant,” she went on, in the old, indolent 
tone. “ So many gallant men supped here, Rupert, before 
taking boat. And they brought each his tale of battle in the 
hills. And their disguises were so odd, almost as odd as the 
clothes you’re wearing now, my clear.” 

“ The Prince’s were little better when I last saw him,” 
laughed the other. 

“ Ah, now, you will sit down beside me — here — and Nance 
shall sit there, like Desdemona listening to Othello. And you 


LOVE IN EXILE 


401 


will tell us of the Prince. You were very near his person dur- 
ing the Highland flight, they tell me.” 

So Rupert, because he had that one night’s leisure at com- 
mand, forgot his own perils in telling of the Stuart’s. He had 
no art of narrative, except the soldier’s plain telling of what 
chanced ; but, step by step, he led them through the broken 
days, talking seldom of himself, but constantly of Prince 
Charles Edward, until the bare record of their wanderings be- 
came a lively and abiding tribute to the Stuart’s strength. 
And when he had done Lady Royd was crying softly, while 
Nance felt a strange loyalty play round her like a windy night 
about the moors of Lancashire. 

“ He was like that ! ” said Lady Royd at last. “ He was 
like that, while, God forgive me ! I was picturing him all the 
while in love-locks, dancing a minuet.” 

“ The sword-dance is better known, mother, where we have 
been,” said Rupert, with pleasant irony. 

Late that night, when Nance had left them together for a 
while, Lady Royd came and laid a hand on her son’s arm. 
“ You have done enough,” she said. “Oh, I know! There 
are still many broken men, waiting for a passage. They must 
take their chance, Rupert. Your father was not ashamed to 
cross to France, with my help.” 

He put an arm about her, for he had learned tenderness in 
a hard school. “ Mother, he was not ashamed, because his 
work was done here. Mine is not. What Oliphant knew of 
the byways — what the last months have taught me — I cannot 
take the knowledge with me, to rust in France. I am pledged 
to these gentry of the Prince’s.” 

“ Then I shall go on playing at ships here — till you come 
to ask a passage.” 

And her face was resolute and proud, as if this son of hers 
had returned a conqueror. 

The next day, after nightfall, Rupert went out again, through 
Edinburgh’s moonlit streets, toward the northern hills and the 
perils that he coveted. And just before he went Nance De- 


402 


THE LONE ADVENTURE 


maine came down into the hall, and stood beside him in the 
gusty candle-light. Old days and new were tangled in her 
mind ; she was aware only of a great heart-sickness and trouble, 
so that she did not halt to ask herself if it were maidenly or 
prudent to come down for another long goodbye. In some 
muddled way she remembered Will Underwood, his debonair 
and easy claiming of her kerchief, remembered their meeting 
on the heath, and afterwards Will lying in the courtyard at 
Windyhough, his body tortured by a gaping wound. She had 
given him her kerchief then for pity, and now Rupert was go- 
ing out without claiming the token she would have given him 
for love. Rupert seemed oddly forgetful of little things these 
days, she told herself. 

“ Would you not wear my favour — for luck? ” she asked. 

And then, giving no time for answer, she began feverishly 
to knot her kerchief into a white cockade ; and then again she 
thought better of it, and untied the blue scarf that was her 
girdle, and snipped a piece from it with the scissors hanging 
at her waist. 

“ It is the dear Madonna’s colour ; and I think you ride for 
faith,” she said, with a child’s simplicity. “ Rupert, I do not 
know how or why, but I let you go very willingly. I did not 
understand until to-night how — how big a man’s love for a 
woman is.” 

They were not easy days that followed. Rupert was among 
the Midlothian hills — farther afield sometimes — snatching sleep 
and food when he could, shepherding the broken gentry, leav- 
ing nothing undone that a man’s strength and single purpose 
could accomplish. And in the house near Holyrood Lady 
Royd and Nance were helping the fugitives he sped forward to 
get on shipboard. And ever, as they plied this trade of separa- 
tion under peril, a knowledge and a trust went up and down 
between Edinburgh and the northern hills — a trust that did 
not go on horseback or on foot, because its wings were 
stretched for flight above ground. 

And near the year’s end, with an easterly haar that made the 


LOVE IN EXILE 


403 


town desolate, the last fugitive came to the house that lay 
near Holyrood. He should have been spent with well-doing, 
footsore and saddle- sore with journeyings among the hills; 
but, instead he carried himself as if he had found abundant 
health. 

“ I’ve done my work, mother,” he said, stooping to Lady 
Royd’s hand. 

“ It’s as well, my dear. Nance and I were nearly tired of 
playing at ships.” 

That night they got aboard at Leith ; and, after a contrary 
and troubled crossing, they came into harbour on the French 
coast. The night was soft and pleasant, Hke the promises 
that France had made the Stuart — the promises made and 
broken a score of times before ever the Prince landed in the 
Western Isles. A full moon was making a track of amethyst 
and gold across the gentle seas, and a faint, salt breeze was 
blowing. 

“ Are you content? ” asked Nance. 

“ Content ? My dear, what else ? ” 

And yet she saw his glance rove out across the moonlit track 
that led to England; and a jealous trouble, light as the sea- 
breeze, crossed her happiness; and she conquered it, because 
she had learned in Edinburgh the way of a man’s heart. 

“You’re dreaming of the next Rising?” she said, with a 
low, tranquil laugh. “ I shall forgive you — so long as you 
let me share your dreams.” 


FINIS 










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